


Beyond Thievery

by senokai



Category: Uncharted (Video Games)
Genre: Action & Romance, Action/Adventure, Adult Content, Angst, Angst and Drama, Character Death, Drama & Romance, Eventual Romance, F/M, Fluff, Major Original Character(s), Minor Character Death, Minor Original Character(s), Other, Past Relationship(s), Past Violence, Platonic Relationships, Platonic Romance, Reader-Insert, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Swearing, Violence, idk - Freeform, smut?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-06
Updated: 2020-09-14
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:07:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 24,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26283154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/senokai/pseuds/senokai
Summary: [ ∞ ᴠᴀʀɪᴏᴜs ᴜɴᴄʜᴀʀᴛᴇᴅ x ғᴇᴍ! ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ ∞ ]≡A call from an old friend takes a young historian out of two years of retirement and back into the life as a treasure-hunter. With the promise of riches and glory, the brothers Drake and their rag-tag team of other misfits come together to find cities of myths and legends, all as thick as thieves.Yet, not all treasure is silver and gold.
Relationships: Harry Flynn/Reader, Rafe Adler/Reader, Samuel Drake/Reader
Comments: 6
Kudos: 11





	1. ─ 1 ─

* * *

## 𝐀𝐧𝐜𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐇𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲

**“𝘌𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘥𝘦𝘤𝘦𝘪𝘷𝘦𝘴 𝘮𝘢𝘺 𝘣𝘦 𝘴𝘢𝘪𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘵.” — 𝘗𝘭𝘢𝘵𝘰, 350 𝘈𝘋**

**𝚂𝚎𝚙𝚝𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛 𝟺, 𝟷𝟿𝟿𝟿**

Y/N holds her breath, scanning the scenic landscape filled with lush green forestry, a range of mountains that was the most vast and tallest she had ever seen, deep-blue seas that kissed the end of the horizons, and the mossy-stone remnants of some unknown civilization lost to time, arising many questions to her curiously keen, historian eye. 

Yes, Y/N had held her breath quite tightly, only to release it with an annoyed groan.

Another _**goddamn**_ pamphlet. When will they ever take the fucking hint? 

Yet another leaflet adds to the stack. Glossy papers sits tall at the corner of the mahogany desk in a messy collection, still infuriatingly aligned for Y/N to see from her peripheral as she tries to finish the last passages of her manuscript. The bright monitor was hurting her eyes, and it was already a bad idea to take a break by checking through the mail—creating much more of an eyesore—especially since it was way past eleven. 

At this point, the sight of scenic landscapes is gonna make her hurl. 

She’s gotten, _what_ , **_24_** fully-funded expedition offers this month? It was truly a shame. Now, she’s got to add **_24_** more offers to the mass rejection email. Already, her hands shake and tremble as she reaches towards the mouse of her computer, gliding her hand and clicking mindlessly to create another word document. Her heart has the sudden urge to ache as she types _‘Thank you for your offer’,_ hesitating to type _‘however…’._

And, in the end, they do. They clench into her fist, retreating from they keys and shying away from the offer of another adventure—a mystical thrill-ride, a chance for exhilarating discoveries, an opportunity of a life time—Y/N forces herself to push away from the computer completely. 

_Jesus Christ_ , she thinks frustratedly. _What was she going to do?_

_Miss Y/N_ , otherwise known as _Swearing-Sunshine_ around the block, had turned away from a dangerously thrilling life two years ago. Those who heard her reason refuted, poorly—just wasn’t up for it, anymore—and Y/N did her best playing the part. When she turned twenty, she immediately went to work as a museum archivist and historian, using the money she got from pawning a few notable pieces from her escapades, buying a flat in _Paris_ that she could just barely afford. The work was rather tedious than occasional, and Y/N had to blame that on her boss.

Stretching her arms to pop her strained joints, Y/N swivels around her chair and faces her quiet, third-floor study. The blazing fireplace was a new sight of comfort, warming her from the soles of her fluffy socks to the top of her head that aches with a migraine. The dual-sided velvet green sofa, a gift from an old friend, was practically singing to her, promising to make all of her troubles disappear in the land of dreams. 

But Y/N looked away, smiling to herself, thinking that if that were true; she’d sleep forever.

Her gazes drifts further, delving deeper into the past shadows. Various trinkets and artifacts were sitting in a few boxes at the corner of the room by the bookshelves, all scribbled ‘ _MUSEUM DONATIONS_ ’ with black sharpie. From the open cardboard flaps, there were an abundance of diverse treasures that could be seen; gold medallions, polished _Greek_ vases, _Elder Futhark_ runic stone tablets, and fragments of an _Aztec_ feather shield—glimmering and shining in her eyes. Yet, Y/N told herself to be more than eager to get rid of them tomorrow morning.

She used to enjoy collecting them though, around two years ago. It was the late summer now, Y/N remembered how she spent it once in the wilderness of _Czech Republic_ , chasing down old ancient _Bohemian_ legends and tracking down the tangible myths hidden in the mountain outskirts of _Indonesia_. Thinking about how long it's been, Y/N feels a waver of sadness as she looks upon her mundane life as the sheltered and over-worked historian she was today. 

_Miss Madeleine Arcane doesn’t even need me_ , Y/N thinks with a sense of anger.

The _Arcane_ family, in all of its historical glory, was nothing but a tycoon run by a woman who was too busy spoiling her two bratty kids rotten. Y/N had witnessed enough to know that her work was nothing but needless labor. Yet, there were a million and one reasons why she couldn’t just walk away or quit, reasons that were better left not reliving, for everyone’s sake.

In a way, Y/N cursed herself for letting her dreams get buried so easily, much like the treasure she could be out looking for right now. _But, at least nobody is getting hurt_ , Y/N always had to remind herself so bitterly—other than her eyes for looking at a bright monitor for two-fucking-hours straight.

Some slapstick remark would show up in her inbox in the morning, Y/N was certain of it, or worse, a hellish lecture delivered straight when she walks through the doors. 

All of those treasures has an odd smell. It’s earthy, corrosive against her nostrils, picked clean of the dirt that it was rooted from. Y/N is minimally distracted by the rustic scent, catching herself from half-assing on the following response of her mass rejection email. The words and fragments of her memories come together like pieces of a puzzle, overlapping reality, the urge to rip herself away or change her mind about her decision is overwhelming. 

And then, she stops altogether, hearing a faint beeping in the far corner of the study.

Nervously, she turns around in her chair to face the noise, eyeing narrowly at the velvet cushions that resound with a faint mechanical buzzing. Y/N half-heartedly thinks that there’s a hive between the cushions, timidly rising from her seat and taking slow strides toward the sofa. Her hand digs between the left pillow and then the right, her fingers wiggling to graze against anything solid or alive—she would scream bloody murder, surely. 

Finally, feeling something solid and moving, Y/N fishes out her hand to reveal her old pager.

**𝙶𝚄𝙴𝚂𝚂 𝚆𝙷𝙾?**

_“What the fuck?”_

Perhaps dropping the device on the ground and smashing it with the heel of her foot wasn’t the best thing to do. Y/N is surprised at herself for being out of breath as she removes herself from the black-plastic bitted mess that burns her sole from the itching wires, concluding that the pager itself had brought more than just dangerously bad memories from the past, finding sweat beading on her brow.

Pieces of the pager were still caught in the fuzzy lint balls of her socks, and some were stuck in her heel, still feeling that jolting electric touch that sent an unkind tingle up her leg. But that was the least of Y/N’s worries, all she knows was that someone was trying to contact her pager—her **_fucking_** _**pager**_ —a device she thought she got rid of for good when she was doing _‘that sort of thing’_.

_Who could possibly be contacting me? Who have I pissed off recently? Was it Julia? Could she have found out and got angry? No, I’ve been dog-sitting for her for months! I don’t owe her shit. Oh, my god. Was it Karen—!?_

Those memories hurt less when she is distracted by yet another mechanical beeping sound behind her. It almost scares her more than the pager did. Y/N’s wide eyes flickered feverishly against the bright monitor of her computer—turning on by itself earned another _‘what the fuck?’_ —alive with a name that spread across the screen in placid white text. 

Y/N immediately clicks accept and turns on the webcam.

_“Nathan **fucking** Drake!?”_

_“Miss **fucking** Y/N!?”_

The sound of a _Drake’s_ guffawing laughter was more than enough to drop all tension she had in her shoulders. The panic was swept from her body in a single motion, instantly uncaring towards the biting, electrical pain of her foot, slowly picking away at the black chips with her finger. Everything that she had to worry about increased tenfold though, but this time, Y/N had no doubt in her mind that whatever Nathan fucking Drake got into himself now, it was sure to be much worse than her’s—so, she slumped to her desk with a rare smile, all happy and bright.

“I swear to god, Nathan, you almost gave me a goddamn heart attack. We gotta stop greeting each other like that,” Y/N rests her chin on the bridge made by her laced fingers, jokingly cross, “But then again, I don’t quite feel ready enough to let this little sailor mouth go.”

“Nah, if you lose the swearing all that snark would go.” Another voice is heard in the background, all enough for Y/N’s expression to light up brighter.

_“Samuel!”_ She exclaims as the older brother slides into the frame, a beer in hand, “Nice to see you, too.”

“Don’t forget about me!” A gruff voice perks up, followed by a quiet _‘where do I look?’,_ before Y/N can see the _Victor **goddamn** Sullivan_ squeeze his way into the frame with an entrance of smoke from his cigar, “You forget about me already, _sunshine?_ And I thought my memory was starting to go.”

Y/N’s laugh is sweet to the ears and to the other side of the screen. Though she fails to witness the upturns at the corners of lips, she picks up the shift in the atmosphere that turns serenely warm. In the end, she basks in whatever’s left, too. Thankful of all the company she has in these bleaker days.

“Well, I haven’t shaken off _Cambodia_ quite yet, old timer, don’t worry,” Her brows raise with a shallow nod, “Okay, so…to what do I owe the pleasure of being contacted by the _Three Musketeers_ after two years of silence?”

Y/N almost knows what they’re going to ask, what they might say—something along the lines of _‘we’ve got something big!’_ Or something else along the lines that could be said so joyously in those cartoonish voices of theirs—but she bites her tongue to prevent herself from jumping the gun. She pauses as the tensions shifts again, this time, as a reluctant and nervous patience. Though the pixels don’t reveal as much as her eyes would’ve, Y/N knows that the boys are glancing at each other, waiting for someone, anyone, to man up and speak.

There are other treasures in the room, she finally notices, other relics of her life that weren’t packed away in measly boxes. Though they aren’t plainly visible on the screen, they feel as if they’re watching a movie with significant backgrounds; purposeful continuity errors, something like that, and Y/N seems to be enjoying all of it. There are picture frames that immortalize her smiles and refined outfits, portraying various esteemed awards and precious memories that she’s got to experience until after they stopped talking—until she stopped _treasure-huntin_ g.

They almost end the call at that point.

“Listen, Y/N,” Victor finally speaks, taking the cigar from his mouth to show a dubious frown, “We wouldn’t have called if it wasn’t important. Especially, after everything that you’ve done to help us and how we helped you. You seemed like the right gal to call, but…when Nathan told us that you, _uh_ …” 

Y/N puts a hand up, silencing Victor from elaborating by himself. Even if they’re not facing each other, the tension in her body still runs its course and true.

“Guys, look, it’s okay. Whatever you need, I can help. Just because I stopped treasure-hunting doesn’t mean I won’t help you guys do it. Okay?”

Even though there is a hanging silence, Y/N tries her best to not look reluctant on her own. She can’t make out the exact expression on Nathan’s face, but she can certainly see Sam’s; his beer is clenched with white knuckles. Her mouth almost slips another reassuring word, but Victor speaks against the pause.

“There’s a new lead on something that we’ve been chasing for a while. Had to put the other stuff on hold.”

_So they’re still going at it_ , Y/N thinks blankly, _poor guys._

“It’s not gonna be an easy find,” Sam spoke sternly, “We need some… _inside knowledge_ …if you catch the drift. Access, layouts, the whole deal.”

Details on an artifact or cultural advice can go through fax or email easily. Y/N considered herself lucky that all she would need to do to help was lift a few fingers and skim through the pages of her vast collection of historic texts that could be narrowed down by a simple glance. She had many talents sure, but she considered herself smart to stick to being a measly bookworm. As long as she doesn’t have to leave.

“I’ll see what I can do. What’ve you got?”

“Well, Y/N…” Sam already sounds better after taking a swig of beer, “You see, we’ve come across this lead that we think has to deal with some potentially lost riches down in _Greece_ …which happens to be the strongest area of your very broad expertise.”

Already, Y/N can feel an unknown force send a dire chill down her spine. But she nods anyway. Studying Greece was a particularly fond subject throughout her education. Mythos, political sciences, moral philosophies from old guys in robes—as she called them—were a better way to pass the time rather than gossiping on which boy Jessica made out with at a party filled with prepubescent twats. Those tendencies followed throughout her older years, especially, turning down invitations to social gatherings, left to stick her nose in a book and her hair swaying from a jungle wind. And, on rare occasion, flipping through pages with bloody knuckles.

“I’m listening,” Y/N hums, picking away the last bit of the pager from her sock, “Although, I can’t imagine the explanation being short, sweet, and to the point, knowing you three. Especially from you, Samuel,” That received an earnestly rough laugh, “Break it down for me.”

“Well, apparently, before the Romans even considered conquering Greece, there was a lot of shit that went down between _Julius Caesar_ and _Catiline_. Y’know the whole Rome conspiracy shit. During Caesar’s trial, he relied on _Epicureanism_ to save his ass against Catiline who he claims was a conspirator, and it works—”

“—More or less after being accused of being a conspirator himself.” Victor adds, earning a chiding snort from Nathan and a breathy chuckle from Y/N, seeing Sam almost roll his eyes out of his head.

_Poor guy_ , she thinks teasingly.

“Anyway, Caesar learns all this from his father-in-law _Lucius_ , who was strictly _against_ Caesar and goes missing after the _Senate_ declares war in the _East_ where he was sent. Nobody mentions him since and the _Syme_ thinks he’s long dead.”

“Because he actually _was?_ ” Y/N raises a brow, but Sam shakes his head with a wicked grin.

_“That’s what history tells us.”_

**_Smart-ass_** , sits comfortably on her tongue. 

“What if he never went to the East? Well, people who knew Lucius also knew that he was in some weird cult on the island of _Samothrace_. Now, these guys worshiped a ton of gods in this ancient city, but aside all the weird orgies and the shady beliefs, they worshiped _Dionysus_. Roughly.”

“That’s not surprising,” Y/N laughs, straightening up, “The god is literally all about partying and wine. So, what’s the point of all this? I can feel my headache getting bigger by the second.”

This time, Nathan takes the stand; his hand raising to the screen to show a parchment, a picture of some sort of cup. There are two images of the same chalice, yet they are shown in two different colors. Y/N immediately recognizes the artifact, cocking a brow; it’s _the_ _Roman Lycurgus cup._

“You know what this is?”

“Of course I do.” Y/N answers, almost offended.

“In mythology, Dionysus had his cult banned by _Lycurgus, the king of Thrace._ But what if, historically, the Senate was gonna ban Lucius’s cult? It would mean the end of all their shit; their practices, their beliefs, including their troves of sacraments and treasure. We’re willing to bet that he didn’t go to the East, he went back to Samothrace for this—to hide away those ancient riches. It’s some kind of blood chalice, used for initiations and blood rituals.”

“But…why would he go back for that? The Lycurgus cup does nothing but glow.”

“Yeah, and it’s also a cup that is the most mind-boggling, nanotechnik mystery, and it was enough for Lucius to cover up his death, and… _hold on,_ ” Nathan pauses from his increased rambling, beginning to lean out of frame, “Check your email.”

Y/N complies, opening her inbox with a few clicks and peering at a picture document that was sent by Nathan’s email; an original scripture from _Rome_ —looking to be around _50th_ _BC_ —written in _Latin_.

_“My god,”_ Y/N speaks through her breathlessness, “This is Lucius’s writing.”

Although Y/N could only make out a couple of phrases at first glance, she awaited the filling blanks for the boys who, allegedly, grew up _Catholic_. 

_“‘The northern and southern light show in flowing colors the fruits of Greece. The eastern and western light hide Greece's fruits of flowing colors,’”_ Sam reads, watching Y/N’s reactions that are only minimal; slightly nodding and blinking owlishly.

“We think that the Lycurgus cup isn’t just a ritualistic or initiation object, but the _key_ to their hidden riches! Isn’t that amazing?” Sam and Nathan are practically glowing brighter than the monitor.

Everything that was once lost begins to resurface again. This profound theory, the greatest faith of impossible opportunities, the pure calling for adventure that Y/N had been deprived of for so long. The way her eyes are twinkling and mouth curling wide, in the Drake’s eyes, are the clearest signal of her agreement. Victor shrugs his shoulders, puffing his cigar.

“Sounded like a crock of shit to me at first but…” Sullivan gives a smirk, “It all depends on what you make of it.”

“Guys…you got all that from this document? That’s…really amazing,” Yet, the three don’t miss the excitement in her eyes that turn dubious, “But that chalice is already in the _London_ museum. How could you possibly—“

_And then, it hits her._

“You’re gonna steal it, aren’t you?” Y/N already knows the answer, letting out a smiling groan.

“We are,” Sam smugly corrects, “You’re gonna help us, if you would be so kind. Yes, the cup is in the London museum but soon, it won’t be. Some offshore buyer from _Ha Long Bay_ coast bought out the chalice, turns out the exchange has been postponed for weeks due to construction.”

“But last week, they finished,” Nathan continued, “They’re gonna be holding an exquisite corporate party held in the _Great Court_ as a celebration. This should be easy with all your connections, though, right?”

There are cogwheels beginning to turn in her head, dark and rusty machines turning slow and creaking. A tug at the corner of her lip gathers the concerned attention for Y/N, whose forehead pinches downward at the thought of this confident plan. _What if they got caught?_ They had a reputation of getting their hands dirty after a slip-up more than once, she knew, almost getting the worst of it herself. She wondered what would happen to herself if anyone caught them, how fast her life would go spiraling down the drain if she was revealed to be an associate to their failed heist. Madeleine would be the least of her worries, Y/N chuckled at the thought, that would sound nice for a change.

“There’s gonna be a lot of eyes,” Y/N gnawed at her lip, “If you get caught—“

_“—We won’t,”_ Nathan assured with a lop-sided grin, “Have some faith. We’ll be in and out of there before anyone knew what hit em’. You’ll get your cut, and who knows? Maybe things will change for the better.”

Y/N liked the sound of that. She _really_ liked the sound of that. An extra bonus to her pay check—which would be considered a pittance—would be a generous opportunity to her complete retirement. She could finally put in a deposit for that condo, or repay what she owed to Madeleine so that she would finally be free from the hooks in her back. In the end, Y/N wasn’t greedy, materials could come as easily as they’d go—but the price of her freedom was a high stake, especially as a previous treasure-hunter looking for a place to settle down quietly.

She wasn’t treasure-hunting, Y/N told herself. She was just helping others do it. Her efforts would be as hard as lifting a finger. The world would continue to spin on, uncovered and untouched by her. Y/N was sure of it, otherwise, she wouldn’t have to feel guilty as she held onto that satisfying feeling of just _fucking **letting go.**_

“So…” Sam inquired with a sly smirk towards Nathan and Victor, “You’re gonna help us? We’re gonna pull this off?”

Was there was any other answer than, _hell yeah?_

This time, Y/N didn’t hesitate this time to type out her mass rejection email, titled with the words _‘Thank you for your offer. However, something else has just come up ’._

Because who could say no to the _fucking_ Drakes and a _goddamn_ Sullivan?

* * *

honestly didn't expect this, haha. i've been wanting to write for uncharted for a little while and it really surprised me how much i could start off by just one idea. but this first half of the story is a original/spin-off part with the Drake brothers and Sully before the flashback events of Uncharted 4 (before they went to Panama with Rafe)

thank you for reading, xoxo! 


	2. ─ 2 ─

## 𝐑𝐚𝐠-𝐓𝐚𝐠 𝐑𝐞𝐮𝐧𝐢𝐨𝐧

Little Miss Swearing-Sunshine was gonna lose it, soon.

The nights in London are a tad bit colder than Paris, crisp and chilly, especially when out in the open like this. As if standing out in the cold night alone wasn’t bad enough, Y/N struggled to even stand properly with that pinching ache on her shivering spine in the shape of a child’s shoe-print. The flight was difficult, to put it lightly; constant turbulence, urges to vomit on an empty stomach, some French harlot complaining about the airplane food, and a child kicking the back of her seat on the plane with an inattentive parent beside them. Y/N had nearly looked over her shoulder and pulled a gun on him—but she decided there were better ways of scaring kids.

Y/N folds her arms together to create some semblance of coddling warmth, using her nose to pick up any whiff of an off-brand _WK_ cigar or the slightest hint of generic beer in this posh area, fighting desperately against the heavy perfumes and earthy fragrances. Y/N keeps herself distant from the guests that were walking up the staircase to avoid being recognized or even noticed—being associated with the Arcane family already creates an expectant reputation. She fiddles with the end of her blush peplum blouse and tugs at the black cigar trousers near her thighs, holding her clutch bag tightly, eyes alert to each car that passes and stops at the museum entrance lot.

“Tacky limo, tacky limo,” Y/N mumbles to herself, counting the vehicles, “Look for the keyed, tacky limo…”

Of course, the boys would be showing up in whatever was the most convenient or available. Hell, they’d pull up to the _White House_ in a red _Jeep_ if that’s all it took. They really had no sense of drama. Finally, after what seemed like an hour, Y/N spots a slightly-rickety limousine settle in the lot. Low and behold, there was a giant silver line scratched from one tire to the other, earning a hearty laugh. She waves a hand to Sam and Nathan Drake who emerge out of the vehicle first and dressed to the nines, Y/N almost whistled wolfishly.

“Took you boys long enough,” Y/N grumbled playfully as she came down the steps to greet them, “I was beginning to think I got stood up on our little museum date.”

“Not in a million years, sunshine,” Sam smiled, finishing his cigarette before crushing it with his dress shoes, coming to give a light hug, “You look good. Must’ve been a hassle coming in from Paris.”

“Nah, I only almost pulled a gun on a nine-year-old, I composed myself well. And, I can say the same, you don’t smell like a pile of ash…well, as much. What is that? _Stetson?_ ” Y/N draws her eyes towards Nathan, who smells similar as he greets her with a wave.

“You make it sound like we don’t know how to clean up, Miss _fucking_ Y/N,” Nathan chuckles, trying to look cross, “Hey, thanks again. For doing this. We know how much this retirement means to you. Every penny of yours is earned.”

“Yeah, Nathan _fucking_ Drake?” Y/N drew a hand out, rubbing her fingers together, “I’ll thank you until I’m drowning in cash. Come on. Time’s a wasting. Let’s head inside before we freeze our asses out here.”

“Got the floor plans and the admission tickets?” Nathan asked as he scanned the exterior of the building, watching the last few of the guests enter the doors.

Y/N nodded beamingly, fishing into her pocket to pull out a few small tickets and a thinly-folded yellow parchment before giving it to the Drakes and Sullivan. Surely, she doesn’t need to show a ticket for herself. The strings she pulled just to get here were thorough, although she would’ve liked the idea of just bribing her way in just to save herself from being background checked for two hours. Her hearing had all but dimmed as her acquaintance listed out Y/N’s history, not particularly keen on listening about the older days.

Born in _1979 Martigny, Switzerland_ —ethnicity and nationality withheld—came into contact with the Arcane empire in _1989_. Previous residency area withheld, no recorded parental or legal guardianship. Studied and graduated at eighteen, immediately going into work under the Arcane empire as a museum archivist and apprentice under _Madeleine Grant Arcane_ as a historian— _blah, blah, **fucking** blah_. Y/N rolled her eyes at that particular bit of information, remembering nothing but unfriendly memories of her dear old boss, thereafter thinking of the generous cut she would get after the job was done. Y/N then hoped dearly that she could finally stick her two-weeks notice right up _Madeleine’s—_

“Y/N! You coming?” Nathan called out from the top of the staircase.

Y/N had given nothing but a smile, chuckling to herself as she climbed up the stairs.

_This was gonna be fun._

༻✧༺

The _Greek Revival_ architecture style of the museum was an interesting touch. They really nailed the theme for tonight’s chaos. 

There was at least a two-hundred-fifty people headcount—meaning that their mindfulness and caution levels needed to be up by two-hundred-fifty percent. The basis had formulated two groups; Sam and Nathan as the _filchers_ while Y/N and Victor were the _watchers_. During a quick scan, with at least fifteen exit points, forty-four columns as cover, and at least five open-window panels, Nathan assured that their escape options were at least close by. Although Sam agreed, Y/N found it wise to stick with Victor’s idea; _just make a run for the **goddamn** front door._

“So, what’s our play here? These corporate idiots are everywhere. What if the cup isn’t even here and we’re too late?” Nathan glanced over his shoulder, eyeing jarringly at the podium of the Great Court while the group lingered in the back area of the crowds and dinner-tables.

Y/N had also seen where Nathan was looking, finding it particularly difficult for her due to the height difference. Her eyes could barely scrape the tops of people’s heads, frowning as she only saw a suited man talking to a noticeably fashionable crowd at the back of the stage. Y/N assumed it had been other important company, deciding to duck her head low and face away.

If anyone knew she was here, she was screwed. If anyone knew she was here and told Madeleine, she was _screwed_. Y/N grimaced at the possible scenarios. It took a lot of begging from Julia to cover her shift in the archives, with losing yet another two weeks to dog-sitting a tiny Pomeranian, and to keep her whereabouts under wraps from her boss and other coworkers. Y/N scraped the last of her savings for the plane ticket, and sincerely prayed that everything doesn’t go down the drain tonight, doing her best to keep her mind occupied by fantasizing about that condo. 

That condo. That sweet, _sweet_ condo. Y/N smiled dreamily before noticing Sam’s beaming smirk.

“Relax, the cup is still here. _Look,_ ” Sam points around the uncrowded areas at the back of the pillars, seeing multiple stacked crates at various entrances and exits, a few suspicious men lurking near them, “Those crates are empty. They aren’t wrapped with ropes and there’s no zip-ties around the slots. None of these guys can transport anything safely with full-house.”

Victor looked reassured enough, Y/N observed, nodding in agreement before settling down in the nearest table, snatching and ripping apart the name-tag that sat innocently in the middle. Naturally recovering, Y/N began contemplating the empty crates and the men, looking up at the various signs near the other entryways—all of them were exhibits.

“If the cup hasn’t moved yet, then it should still be in the _Late Roman_ exhibit,” Y/N explained before letting out a quiet groan, clicking her tongue against her teeth, “But unfortunately, that also means that the security alarms are still going to be up until it’s removed. And, it’ll only be off when those corporate idiots come to collect.”

“Then, that means we’ve gotta disable it ourselves and we’re on a time limit,” Victor shook his head, “Lucky us.”

A two hour window… _doable._

Nathan and Sam gave a knowing glance at each other before nodding—some kind of weird brotherly psychic shit—and had splayed out the floor plans parchment across their dining table, making sure that no guests were sparring glances over their shoulders, shoving the coconut-scented candle out of the way. Y/N made a mental note to come back and get it before they left the museum, a finger swishing mindlessly over the small sprout of fire. 

And then, from the corner of her eye, Y/N is taken from the fire to see the suited man again. This time, he is no longer surrounded by a flock of flashy socialites, able to examine his features more clearly as he strides across the room greeting others. Slicked-back brown hair that’s cut short, setting the frame of a strikingly handsome face. He looks young, mid-to-late twenties, lean beneath an unfathomably expensive, velvet red suit. 

His eyes, Y/N sees, they’re as blue as the sea.

_Have I…seen him before?_

“Everyone got their ear-pieces? If you don’t, you owe me fifteen bucks,” Gathering Y/N’s frazzled attention, they nod, Victor lifted his eyes towards the line-up of security blocking certain entry points, “The staircase to the ground floor is at the southwest corner, but there are loads of guards there, armed to the teeth. We need a diversion, Y/N and I can handle that.”

Sullivan seemed to strain against Y/N’s almost unaffected nod of agreement, wondering what kind of trick could the _‘old fox’_ play on the _‘vixen’._ Y/N did not miss the disagreeable and hardening crinkle of Victor’s nose, somehow wanting to laugh as she already knew alcohol would be needed, desperately—or else she wouldn’t know how to handle the situation naturally.

“Once you get around them, there is an elevator that will take you to the sub levels. The nerve center is the last door on the right. Sam, you think you can take this one while Nathan grabs the cup?”

“Hell yeah,” Sam grins, tucking away the parchment, finger-gunning as he removes himself from the table with Nathan, “All on you, Sully.”

“Let’s get this over with, Y/N,” Victor mutters reluctantly, before coughing awkwardly, earning a snort from Y/N, “I mean… _Miss Voleuse Paire._ ”

“After you, _Mister Tricher Paire._ ” 

Y/N downs a stray glass of champagne, smiling as she smashes it on the floor.

༻ **2:50** ༺

Everyone turns to the chaos unfolding after Y/N throws down the glass, creating a glittery and painfully sharp mess that spills under her wedge heels. Drops of light gold soak the ends of her trousers and stain onto her knees. Everyone’s eyes are wide and their mouths drop open with gasps, the room is absolutely floored. No one is not staring at Y/N and Victor, who begin to act out the next phase in their hysterically dramatic mess that even gathers the armed guards’ eyes. She is crumpled on her knees, hands shielding her eyes that are dripping with crocodile tears and gasping whimpers.

“How could you do this, Tricher!?” Y/N cries loudly, sputtering heaving sobs, “You told me you were getting sober! I trusted you!”

_Okay, a sugar-daddy had a relapse and hit his younger paramour. This’ll work,_ Victor thought begrudgingly.

She is adamant that she remain on the ground, jerking away from the people around her who had some sense of compassion and help her up—bless their souls. She responded in another round of shuddering whimpers, trying to remain small and vulnerable until at least one guard is pulled away from their posts. Y/N tears her hand from her cheek that she harshly pinched, creating a rosy spot that made it look like Sully had hit her. His hand was already held up as he was surprised that Y/N threw the glass so quickly.

“N-now, Voleuse,” Victor stammered hoarsely, flashing a weak smile to the crowd, “I never meant for it to go this…far.”

There was a sea of gossiping and appalled whispers circling the Great Court, distracted completely from the main podium that was showing a presentation for some godawful painting—Y/N was really milking it here. Thankfully, Y/N could already see three guards come to their rescue, pushing past those who were glaring at Sully and had decided to put themselves at a distance between Y/N and him.

“Is there a problem here?” The guard asked gruffly, eyes pointed to Victor.

“M-my husband,” Y/N sniffled, taking the guard’s hand as he helped her up, “He struck me…I tried to confront him for having a relapse after three months of being sober. Please, I beg you! Call his probation officer! Take him away from me! _Take him out of this museum!”_

There were lethal automatics strapped behind their backs, a detail that Y/N didn’t fail to miss as she practically fell into the guard’s arms. They assured her through clamoring and slightly panicked commands, Victor had seen their weapons, without a doubt, already trailing a bit behind while they were escorting him from the premises. Sizing himself up was not a problem, and already, Y/N was timing the three boys for the extraction and get-away.

As she looked around the room—in between watching Sully make more of a fuss on the way out—she had seen two people slip through the guard’s empty posts, flashing a thankful grin before disappearing into the dark corridors. Her eyes were half-mast and red, blinking carelessly now as she let herself be escorted by the worried guests back to her table. Her work was done, all she needed to wait for was the cut.

_Why was her hands still shaking though?_

_“Are you alright, Miss Voleuse?”_ A man had asked her, a hand brushing against her shoulder that was strewn with her hair.

Y/N was about to brush him off, until she saw his smirking face.

_“H-Harry Flynn?”_

༻ **2:29** ༺

Oh, god. _Oh my fucking god. Why the fuck was **Harry Flynn** here?_

He looks exactly the same the last time you saw him; swept back hair with a few strands to add to his character, a smile that had a hint of an edgy vibe with that small scar on his lip— _given to him by Y/N, of course_ —and a toned figure under a gray suit that screamed _‘charmingly cheap’._ She knows that Flynn has already figured out her dramatic scheme as he is overly friendly with his arm that slings over her shoulders, coddling and warm. He just wants to play along and save face…and also tease her like the dick he was.

Harry Flynn was alone though, _thank god_. He seemed to be lingering around the open bar vendor across the room, surely preparing himself to announce himself after the scheme. He had been holding two glasses of white champagne— _the cheap stuff_ —setting it beside her while she gives him a dangerously stern look. Although she knows that Harry wouldn’t have drugged the drink, she is more cautious of the intentions behind his sudden act of kindness. He was an intelligent bastard, but he wasn’t clever.

As everything now was threatened to be thrown off, Y/N resisted the overwhelming urge to roll her eyes out of her own head as he scoots closer.

“I think you mean to say _‘Harry **fucking** Flynn’,_ sunshine.” His classic accent is laced with mischief, sending familiar shivers down her spine.

“And I think you mean to say _‘ **Swearing** -Sunshine’,_ Flynn,” Y/N says wryly, mocking his accent before raising a brow, “Why the hell are you here? I thought you were staying somewhere down in _Scotland_.”

“Yes, well…I was in Scotland for some small gig, didn’t really find much of anything. Disappointing, really. But then, I got a call for a better deal from one of my old…associates. Says I’m due for something far greater,” Harry’s voice is low, leaning closer to Y/N’s ear that sheens with red, “But enough about me. To what do I owe the pleasure of seeing you, Miss Voleuse Paire? I know being an apprentice historian for the Arcane family has you traveling the world to such exquisite museums like this but…”

Y/N’s heart takes a leap as Harry smirks. 

“I thought you quit the treasure-hunting business a long time ago.”

_Nathan and Sam better hurry the fuck up._

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Harry.” Y/N says firmly, looking cross with her old friend who chuckles, removing himself from her shoulders.

“Then why are you going by that god awful name here in London, love? Miss Voleuse… _Miss Thief?_ Really? You should be lucky you’re not pulling that shit back in your own home.”

Harry knows every reaction Y/N makes as she becomes comfortable without him breathing down her neck. She is still squeamish and meek, under some form of pressure that she is desperately hoping not to reveal to the light. He focuses mostly on her eyes that’s drawn downward, her cheeks being bitten from the inside while her fingers curl around the champagne glass, slowly taking a sip that was all just fizz and bubbles.

He knows. He _fucking_ knows.

“Yes. How…fortunate…I am pulling that shit here, on your turf.” Y/N straightens her spine, casting a sour glare.

“It’ll all end well for us, sunshine, don’t worry. The ticket for my greater due is right up there.” Harry points to the podium, where Y/N can see someone cutting across the stage.

The shock of just who is up on the stage hits her like a physical being, like she was socked in the jaw with a fist made of surprise. Those sea-blue eyes are overlooking the crowd, in a way, looking at her. He is more of a looming figure now, tall and beaconing—almost shining like some holy angel—with that shiny hair and golden smile of his. She wonders desperately how Harry managed to get partnered up with some swell rich guy like him. The question—is it too late for us—sits right on the tip of her tongue, yet she smartly bites it.

Yes, she answers herself sternly, bitterly, it is way too late for us.

“He running the event tonight,”

_Shit._

“We’ve partnered up investigating some interesting artifact,”

_Shit. Shit._

“Don’t really know what it is. Some Rome or Greek piece. You might know a thing or two…”

_Shit. Shit! Shit! **Fucking shit!**_

Strangely, the two fall quiet. Y/N is aware of the signals that Harry is drawing out for her; clearly wanting to catch up, wanting to know what’s been going on ever since she left Switzerland. In all honesty, despite not wanting to say such things out loud, she wants to be friendly, too. They’re both on business, Y/N knows, and it was a shame that they were on each other’s opposing sides.

“I thought you were dead, you know,” Flynn says quietly, eyes elsewhere and thankfully, not seeing Y/N’s sad frown, “I never thought I’d see you again. I thought… _they_ …did something to you.”

Y/N drinks all that is gold without batting an eyelash.

“I wished they did.” 

Harry wants to say something, but he remains quiet. He doesn’t want to talk about it. She doesn’t want to talk about it, either. But they both know it’ll heal so much. Maybe downing that entire glass in one go wasn’t that good of an idea after all, Y/N ponders with a frown, beginning to close her eyes and listen to what was happening in her ear-piece. There’s nothing but noise from her own party—how disappointing.

“Give me your drink.” Y/N uncharacteristically tries to make conversation, reaching out her hand and wiggling her fingers for Harry’s untouched beverage.

Harry looks surprised for a second as she shines a smile.

Sunshine…huh.

“Can you handle it, darling?” Harry finds his mischievous voice again, teasingly bringing the glass closer and away in waving motions, finding her eagerness a pleasant change, “You’ve always been known to be the light-weight during these events. And, as much as I’d want to, I can’t be the one carrying you back.”

Y/N gives a pout. A childishly needy and red-faced pout. Harry immediately gives her the drink with a sigh.

“I hate it when you do that.”

“ _Mm_ …And yet, you fell in love with it once.” Y/N takes a hearty swallow of the bubbling drink, licking her lips.

_Don’t think about that_ , her sober mind begged. If there was any excitement left in her, it had all faded away. Y/N lacked the energy to give a damn about Harry working with some rich, handsome prude. She only wondered what his name was, and why he looked so fucking familiar. Y/N finished the last of Harry’s drink in a second swallow.

“I’ll get some shots, then.” Harry chuckles.

“Aren’t you working a job?” Y/N hums wetly.

No answer. He’s off to get more alcohol, practically skipping about it, _pricked gobshite._

_Thank fucking—_

**_“Oh, shit!”_**

Y/N winces at the voice shouting in her ear. _What was that? Was that Nathan!? Sam!?_ Everything that isn’t white noise is practically lost on her, and suddenly she felt like she was sober again. She is hyperaware of every little thing around her, flinching backwards whenever a waiter passes by the table, wincing at the noise of the soft jazz whenever that trumpet hits a high _C_. Her hand brushes back the hair that hides the ear-piece, prepared to ask if they were okay and what was going on.

However, she sees Harry settle back down onto the table and her voice gets caught in her throat. He sets down two small glasses in front of her, grabbing two for his own, raising it to her. Her fingers come back from her ear, gingerly grasping the cup before raising her glass.

“It’s nice to see you again, Y/N.” 

**_“Y/N!? Where are you!? I need a little bit of back-up here!”_ **

He **_fucking_** knows.

“It’s nice to see you, too, Harry.”

༻ **1:25** ༺

Their time was cut in half. _Thanks a lot, Y/N._

There is a consistent buzzing in her head, like some sort of hive of angry bees swarming between her ears. Danger alarms begin to reignite her instincts, taken by the thought of either Sam or Nathan being in trouble. He made some sort of call, she hisses sharply, he must’ve contacted his men to up the security antics when he was at the bar getting their stupid drinks. Sam and Nathan are a great distance apart and Y/N was the only person who could save them with Victor restricted from the premises. She has some strength, some sobriety left to move her legs and get up from the table.

But despite that, her mind feels like horrible fragments as the alcohol has already taken into effect. The room is all color and shadowy movement, blurs and Harry’s face. She tries her best not to topple over the table, swaying with the nonexistent breeze that sweeps through the room, while Harry is on his fourth shot and smiling as she had just finished her second. Y/N strung a lengthly curse at herself for her low alcohol tolerance.

“You’re drunk.” He says, a shit-eating-grin on his stupid cut lips.

_Yeah, no fucking shit, genius. Wait—no. He’s a fucking idiot. How in the world could your own drunk mind even mistake that one?_

The noises were getting louder, and something metallic is being used on either Nathan’s side or Sam’s side. Y/N desperately hopes that it’s not a gun. There is shouting now behind the buzzing, and Y/N uproots herself from her spot, trying to get as far from Harry as possible and back to her car to get her silencer pistol. On her own, Y/N wasn’t that skilled in combat like the boys were. Although they had taken it upon themselves to teach her a few moves during the younger days, a two-year retirement had chipped away that fighting and movement instinct more than she would’ve wanted.

Something else is happening over the comms. There’s something bulky being whacked, followed by someone shouting in pain. Someone is shouting again, she hears, but she can’t tell if it was Flynn trying to get her attention or either one of the boys who are begging for her.

“Harry…“ Y/N blinks, seeing the crowd of people turn their attention to the podium, finding that Harry’s supposed angelic partner taking the stand.

_Buy some time, you idiot! If Flynn leaves then it’s all over!_

He hums something, like he’s not even listening to her, but staring cautiously at his partner who begins to address the crowd. His voice is overpowering, Y/N can hear, but she can’t quite make out what he’s saying over the blaring white noise and her panicky thoughts. There’s nothing vocal in her ears, and Y/N was afraid of losing her mind if she didn’t stop him from leaving her.

“Uhm…” Y/N begins, bleary-eyed and flushed red, “I know you said you can’t take me back…but could you take me to my car? I’ll nap in there before I drive home.”

“I’m taking you home,” Was his voice soft now or was it just being overpowered by his partner’s speech? “Don’t worry.”

As Harry begins to move closer, Y/N reluctantly lets him take her by the shoulders and act as her guide. They’re brushing past people’s shoulders and almost stumbling into their backs, but Flynn does a remarkable job keeping her upright. Through the fuzzy darkness, they move together, and Y/N cannot be make out anything clear than the breeze she finally feels. Outside, Harry leads her to the parking lot, eyes scanning the area to search for her car.

Luckily, no Victor in sight.

“Which one is yours, love?”

“Black car… _Moris ital_ …” Y/N slurs over her words.

Soon enough, he finds it at the far left corner of the lot. By this point, he’s walked off whatever alcohol did manage to affect him. Meanwhile, Y/N had been half sober and still buzzing angrily. She unlocked her car, but made sure to keep her clutch bag still in her hand. As she turned to bid Harry goodbye, Y/N blinked, finding him suddenly extremely close for comfort.

His hand reaches to brush his thumb against her cheek, and she almost flinches to his touch. He’s unexpectedly gentle about it. No, Y/N chastises herself. It’s nothing—absolutely nothing. Harry is close, so desperately close, like am embrace that has half the effort. His cologne is the only thing that isn’t cheap, it’s all natural and heavy. She can feel it all, every single move. She stills when his lips press chastely on the crown of her hair, and Y/N finds it in herself to stumble away, seeing something briefly that she can’t understand.

_God dammit._

_“I…”_ She started but couldn’t finish.

_God fucking dammit._

“Come on,” He urged softly, “We can catch up, yeah?”

Y/N was sober and awake now, seeing this version of Harry Flynn that made her extremely sad for some reason. He was quiet and brooding, something so unlike his sarcastic and usual charming self. She had only seen a handful of people like this, but to be so close to one was different. Y/N can practically feel his psyche draining by the second, and it pains her.

“Catch up…” Y/N repeats in a soft voice, nodding faintly.

She takes herself to the trunk of the car, popping it open, while Flynn is about to get in the passenger seat. She puts down her hand bag, as Harry sees from the rearview mirror and straps himself in with the seat belt. What she can see from the side-view mirror is his smiling and dazed face, dark and shadows, hardly any light to reflect upon by the lamp posts.

Y/N comes up to Harry’s side, muttering a quick apology before hitting Flynn upside the head with the butt of her gun—knocking him out cold.

_“Maybe some other time, mon Soleil.”_


	3. ─ 3 ─

## 𝐀𝐠𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐬𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐂𝐥𝐨𝐜𝐤

**༻1:15༺**

It’s been a long time since Y/N has stuffed someone in the truck of her car. Man, those were the good old days. 

Awkwardly stuffing an unconscious Harry Flynn into the back of her car turned out to be a much more grueling task than she anticipated. Did this guy live on donuts or something? She secured any loose hairs out of place, strapping herself in a holster for protection. Grabbing her pistol, she turned off the safety and screwed on the silencer. Bless Nathan’s soul for managing to grab something of low caliber. 

It was a battle of will within Y/N as she refrained herself from shooting Harry in the leg or something. Instead, she settled on pinching the wound in the back of his head where she hit him, relishing as he hissed somewhat. Ha ha, trash, Y/N thinks before hastily returning to the museum. Y/N had tried to get into contact with the boys over the lines, but she was only met with silence and static.

_“Merde **¹** …”_ Y/N mumbled under her breath, her hand hovering over her weapon.

As she entered the Great Court again, Y/N is met with the sight of a couple surrounding the table she and boys were previously at, screaming in rage that someone had stolen their seats due to the obscene amounts of empty alcohol glasses scattered everywhere—pompous pricks. She immediately avoided contact with the other guests, ambling towards the same guards who had helped her up and escorted Victor from the premises. Their faces were pudgy and totally not cute at all, Y/N snorted, _Sam during a hangover looked better than this._

“Are you alright, ma’am?” Two guards had asked when she approached them, leaving some distance from them and the entrance corridor to the sub-level elevators, “Do you need help again?”

_Poor hearts of gold,_ Y/N thought briskly before pointing at the exit, “My husband is refusing to go with me to the police. He’s destroying property and I cannot control him any longer! Please, help me!”

Hopefully, the tone of her voice hadn’t betrayed her face. Since her senses were on high alert and the drinks was still swimming in her liver, she wasn’t fully aware of her own conduct around people. In truth, Y/N was an overall passive and timid person, despite the fact she has the mouth of a sailor. It was a bit difficult to control.

The guards seemed to be convinced of Y/N’s plead, nodding in understanding before racing off towards the exit to find Victor—who surely wasn’t even there anymore—and gave the opportunity for Y/N to slip right inside of the hallway and into the elevators. Pushing the button, she began her own descent and brought out her gun.

_So much for just waiting for my cut_ , Y/N thought bitterly.

**༻1:03༺**

_Holy shit, Drake. What the **hell** did you do?_

When the elevator doors slid open, Y/N was met with the sight of men draped across the floor of the hallway. Her eyes flickered nervously from their wounds and to their weapons, there were shot-gun shells and too many bullet holes in their bodies to count. There were at least ten of them, lined up and smothered against the walls that had streaks of dripping red across the plain beige. Y/N was convinced that Sam was here and silently applauded his work. But despite the bodies at her feet, Y/N knew that he was suffering his own wounds as well.

There are sounds everywhere, but it’s all just white noise. The men aren’t groaning, they aren’t moving, and they’re certainly not breathing. Sam must’ve messed them up real bad in the past half an hour, she quietly wondered how Nathan was doing as well. Y/N witnesses the massacre with indifferent eyes, blinking widely before pressing onwards. 

“Sam?” Y/N called out, flinching as the cracked light panel above sparked violently and showered embers, “Sam? Where are you?”

Y/N raises her pistol to eye-level, stepping cautiously through the parted sea of bodies as she made her way slowly to the last door on the right. Every gap between each door is different, Y/N notes, they’re either clean and noisy or bloody and silent. Her nose gives a wry crinkle. Something pungent was in the air, musky and smoking, like burnt flesh. Maybe it was just her? Some hairs might have singed off because of the broken lights or Sully’s overpowering cigars. Y/N just prayed that it wasn’t Sam, beginning to open the door to the nerve center.

The room is painfully quiet. Y/N lowers her gun and scans the room for any sort of movement. There are numerous monitors and electrical panels that Y/N decides not to mess with yet, eyeing at the floor that has a consistent trail of blood drops. It started from the hallway, Y/N observes, her eyes following the red spots towards a rickety door in the back of the room. It’s like a fucking crime scene in here.

Y/N keeps her pace lively, cutting across the room that is misty with electricity and blood, throwing open the back-room door and stumbles backwards when someone comes rushing out. Y/N maintains herself in between sober and tipsy, shuddering as she feels something cold knick at the skin of her throat— _a fucking knife, for fuck’s sake_ —and seeing Sam’s deliriously pained and wrathful face.

_Bloody cigarettes_ , Y/N almost faints, _so that was the smell._

“Oh my god! Y/N!” Sam instantly throws away the knife once he realizes who he held, bringing Y/N into a tight embrace, “Jesus! I almost killed you!”

Sam pulls away, examining Y/N’s blearily wild eyes and flustered face. She’s partly intoxicated, he sees, but is having one hell of a hard time dealing with it after the fact that he almost slit her throat. His hands reaches the apples in her cheeks, brushing the stray locks with a shuddering sigh of relief. Although Y/N can’t see much of anything than his face, Sam suffered a broken nose and a gash on the right side of his temple. It oozes red, swells purple, and is rimmed with yellow, Y/N chuckles airily, _it’s still not as bad than when he has a hangover._

“What the hell?” Sam suddenly says, rapping his hand lightly on Y/N’s shoulder, snapping her out of it, “I was in trouble. I was trying to call you over the line for backup. What took you so long? I could’ve fucking died!”

_“I—“_ Y/N blinks widely before looking down at the ground in shame. 

Had she not talked to Harry, none of this would be happening. It wasn’t until after Y/N was found out by him, the boys had gotten into some serious trouble. Her face had blanched, no longer rushing with color. He was right to yell at her. God dammit.

_I would’ve been dead, too,_ Y/N thinks bitterly, gnawing at the bottom of her lip.

“I’m sorry,” Her voice is quiet and somber, tears stinging her eyes, “It’s my fault. It’s all my fault…I ran into someone and I tried to play it cool but he still found out and I didn’t know what to—I thought something bad happened, too! I had to stuff him in the trunk and I ran here as fast as I—there were _b-bodies_ , Sam—so many **_fucking_** _bodies_ —they _reeked_ and they had _blood_ all over them and— “

_“—Hey, hey, hey, Y/N._ Listen, it’s alright? Okay?” Sam became dreaded as he listened to her ramblings escalate, continuously and harshly blaming herself that he had realized she couldn’t have controlled, taking her in his arms again, “I’m sorry for yelling, okay? I was just really, _really_ fucking scared.”

Sam rubbed away any tears that rolled down her cheeks, glancing every-so often towards the knife that had clattered uselessly to the ground. He had stolen from some thug who came in here a few minutes ago— _a real prick who kicked him in the nuts—_ and made a mental note to leave it behind. Y/N pulled away first, assuring to Sam that she was okay, shaking her head to try and put her focus back onto the objective.

“I’m truly sorry I couldn’t get here in time,” She manages to say without her voice cracking, “Did you manage to cut the alarms?”

“No, they all came at me once I reached the door. I fought them off but they just kept coming. I had to hide myself in the back door before they got me. Then, all of a sudden, they just stopped. I didn’t want to come out. I had to be sure.”

Y/N nodded slowly, moving towards the many rows of monitors that showed the entirety of the museum. Security cameras caught no movement in the various exhibits, where the guests resided mainly in the Great Court. However, Y/N could see something slinking around the darkness on one of the monitors. They were desperately trying to avoid any semblance of light, where Y/N concluded that it was Nathan approaching the Late Roman exhibit.

“Sam, tell Nathan that I’m about to cut the alarms.” 

“On it.”

There’s conversation happening behind Y/N, but all she can focus on is the monitor that features the Great Court, frowning at the sight of that man who is still talking on the podium. He seems suspicious, above all else, getting a certain unlikable vibe from him that makes her spine crawl. She tries to place him, but her memory is so fogged with recent shocking developments and heavy liquor to even see him correctly. Flipping out her camera phone, Y/N takes a picture of the man and finds his photogenic smile creepy.

“Okay, he’s ready. Cut the alarm now.” Sam instructs as he comes next to her. 

Y/N scans the various panels and follows the columns and rows of keys. A ‘what the actual fuck’ threatening to leave her mouth. Deciding not to make a stupid educated guess, Y/N tries to pick up the patterns of the electrical layout and glances up at the Late Roman exhibit monitor, pressing on the floor and entry number. There is a mechanical humming the resounds on the screen, where Sam points eagerly on Nathan’s monitor—it had been shut off, along with the rest of the security measures in that exhibit.

“We did it!” Sam exclaims loudly, clasping his hand with Y/N’s, “Come on, we gotta help Nathan before more of those goons show up.”

Y/N nods quickly, glancing at monitor with the man in the Great Court, frowning.

_Why the fuck does he look so familiar?_

**༻0:43༺**

Sam takes the one on the left and Y/N takes the one on the right. 

He kicks the guard in the back of the knees and takes advantage of his staggering form, hooking his arm around his neck before jerking it upward. Y/N winced at the crackling noise that came from the guard’s broken throat, but was too preoccupied to complain as she struck the end of her gun into the temple of her guy’s head. Y/N was a noisy fighter, so hands-on stealth was not a good option. Sam shoved the guards’ motionless bodies forward and dragged them by the legs back into the elevator, piling them in a sloppy corner before sending them down with their other dead friends.

_Hopefully, nobody’s going up_ , Y/N thought fleetingly before rushing ahead with Sam towards the Late Roman exhibit. 

The layout of the London museum was extraordinary, but it wasn’t complicated. Y/N had stomached a fair share of museum tours, generic cliche gift-shops, and tourists who won’t tell their yapping kids to _just shut the fuck up_. She was a wallflower, at times. It was an easy task to blend in the back of the crowd taking notes on the art pieces or monuments, slinking to try and not gather any more eyes that pried.

It was not difficult to sidle herself behind Sam against the wall that was aligned with columns, providing a perfect cover. It was comfortable, she felt comfortable. Sam had subtly pointed towards the podium of the Great Court, where Y/N had seen a few guards beginning to join that man in marching formations—his goons, they worked for him. They were beginning to wrap things up, and surely, they had grown suspicious of Harry’s disappearance. 

She really should’ve just left Harry on the side of the curb.

“Come on, the exhibit is just up ahead.” Sam whispered.

With a nod, Y/N had followed closely behind as they alternated their positions behind each column, getting closer and closer to the entryway. Noticing that there was a guard there, too, Y/N had leveled her gun to eye-level, directing her aim into his neck. An unsettling breath shuddered out of her chest, stilling her untamed nerves as she thought of the man as not a living person, but as a target.

_Don’t think about it,_ Y/N thought consistently, _don’t think about it._

However, Sam had taken the gun from her before she got a chance to fire. She snapped her head up to him, glaring.

“What the hell?” She hissed lowly, trying to mask her inner relief.

“If you’re gonna pull off a stealth kill with a silencer, aim for the temple. Not the neck. The guy’s still gonna gargle.” 

“You sound like a homicidal maniac.” Y/N deadpanned, flinching when Sam pulls the trigger, shocked momentarily by the gun’s jutting crack. 

As the man had fallen and rolled over on his side, Sam and Y/N exchanged a concerned look. Sure, they had both done some pretty gruesome things in their lives—some more than others—but the vast majority throughout their escapades was all self-defense. They don’t actively go out killing people just because they stubbed their toe or something. All’s fair in love for treasure and war, right?

_Right?_

Sam moved forward and placed the guard behind the column, motioning with his hands for Y/N to go through the corridor first while he made sure no one had noticed them. His eyes flickered to the man on the stage and then to his goons, and then onto the man who had stumbled his way through the entrance of the museum, holding a wound on his head and a part of a broken tail-light. Taking it as a bad sign, Sam followed Y/N as she bolted towards the exhibit.

**༻0:33༺**

_What? Were they making out or something? What the hell is taking them so long?_

Nathan had been hiding behind a vitrine case that was stocked with drachmas and other Greek antiquities. He resisted the urge to nick a few pieces of his own, thinking about taking Y/N’s advice for pawning lesser pieces, but had stopped when he noticed dark movements on the left side of his peripheral. There were guards a few lengths away from where he was standing on patrol, armed with a semi-automatics. 

At first, there were only four. Now, there were eight. Cursing under his breath, he looked down at his watch that tormented him with time. Almost half an hour left, _what’s the hold up!?_

Apparently, Y/N had encountered someone and was immediately discovered, cutting their original two-hour window in half. Nathan wondered for a moment of who it could have been, but decided that their main objective was the only thing he needed to worry about. Victor had called him once, asking in hid gruff voice where they hell they were—that guy really had no patience for a lot of things, did he?

He had gone through enough trouble trying to take out the guards, nearly getting caught a few times after trying to roll his way closer towards the display case that held the Lycurgus cup in the very back of the room. Like Sam said, the buyer from Ha Long Bay would be moving out soon—which would explain the increasing amount of security that dwindled in his path. Carrying a _CZ-75,_ Nathan peered through the glass, keeping himself still behind the lowest shelf. The alarms were shut down and there were many armed men blocking the way, waiting for back-up wouldn’t be a reliable option in the next ten seconds.

_Neither was going out there commando-style with guns blazing, but hey, who’s keeping track of all that stuff?_

Partially, Nathan felt a little guilty for Y/N. Dragging her back into this life seemed like a mistake. There was radio-silence on both ends ever since she left the business, and despite how much Nathan wanted to contact her—catch up, ask her things, wonder if he was gonna ever help her fix that _goddamn_ leaky faucet—he knew how much it meant to her if he didn’t. She must’ve felt terrible for being dragged back into this. Killing people; that was never in the cards for her, never again.

Yet, he also saw how eager she was when Nathan mentioned the amount of her cut. She wasn’t only all for the money, Nathan knew that much, her eyes practically gleamed when they mentioned escaping from her job. He wanted to assume that things weren’t doing too well at work, proud of himself that they managed to drag her out of it without needing to coerce too much. But they both knew the risks of both their lives and others. Nathan wondered if she could stomach all of this.

But, here she was, holding a silencer pistol and shooting all that had moved in eye-level while Sam was taking out whoever hadn’t fallen to her bullets. Nathan looked on with bewilderment, stunned at such a sight that made him stand out of his hiding place completely and go slack-jawed. _Okay, what the fuck? Seriously, what the fuck?_ The only justification of his guilt was how Y/N kept closing her eyes and wincing with every shot. 

“Hey, brother!” Sam greeted while slamming some guy’s head through a display case, shattering it.

“Hey…” Nathan drawled awkwardly before snapping out of his dazed stupor, going ahead to recover the cup that was suddenly up for grabs.

_Seriously, what the **actual** fuck?_

“I suppose we should be glad that the security alarms are off.” Y/N murmured, reloading her pistol. 

“Yeah, no kidding.” Nathan fumed sarcastically, reaching the case.

The Drake brothers helped each other lift the glass of the Lycurgus cup, breathless as they took a few moments to examine and study its magnificence. Y/N, however, was preoccupied with a man that hadn’t been knocked out completely by Sam, finishing the job by shoving the back of her heel in the back of his neck. Thrusting the pistol back into her holster, Y/N finally relished in the silence as she took out her ear-piece, free from the infuriating buzzing.

_“Dieu me pardonne mes péchés **²**_ _.”_ Y/N muttered quietly before joining Sam and Nathan.

The glass came off the display without a fuss, no bells ringing and certainly no men swarming in. There was a creeping thought of Harry getting the drop on them, but Y/N was just glad she could settle with the quiet. Her eyes peeked over the boys’ shoulders as they procured the cup in their hands. When they turned, Y/N couldn’t believe what she was looking at, wonderment twinkling in her eyes as she took in every detail of the cup that she studied so much about. _This was it_ , this was the Lycurgus cup.

“Holy shit,” Sam chuckled breathlessly, “This thing by itself would earn us a swell couple of bucks. Y’know…if the cult treasure turns out to be a bunch of bullshit, after all.”

“We’re not gonna pawn it to some lackey shop, this beauty deserves better,” Y/N observed, gently taking hold of the cup and examining the rope-work of the vines and various figures inscribed in the jade green, “ _Forty-seventh century Roman_ …recovered from Caesar’s siege in _Alexandria_. There’s our guy, Dionysus. And this is the King of Thrace here, crouched with _Ambrosia_. There’s the satyrs and _Pan_ …Yup, this is the real deal, boys.”

With the biggest grin and a small yell of victory, Sam fished into his trousers pockets, pulling out the printed picture document of Lucius’s writing. Luckily, it wasn’t the real thing, Nathan insisted on that. The cryptic message wouldn’t be easy to solve, Y/N noted, tracing her fingers alongside the Shepard’s crook that was wielded by Dionysus. It was a strange thing, finding that the god’s face was missing. _Huh, curious._

“Okay, so the northern and southern lights show in flowing colors the fruits of Greece… _blah, blah, blah_ …that’s gotta be talking about when the cup’s colors change. The cup glows red from the back, and glows green from the front,” Nathan hummed in agreement to Sam’s theory, watching as Y/N tried holding the cup into the museum light panel above, “Okay, so the western and eastern lights…”

“Did anyone ever record what’s it like when it’s lit up from the sides?” Nathan asked quietly, earning a puzzled shake of the head from Sam, both boys turning to Y/N.

“Interesting observation,” Y/N shrugged, holding out the cup and her hand to Sam, wiggling her fingers, “Why don’t we find out, Smokey?”

Sam rolled his eyes, taking out his lighter from his pocket before slapping it in her hand, “That hurts.”

“The paper, too,” Y/N added with a grin, earning a jaundice glare from Sam while she gave an exasperated sigh, “We have to light it from both sides. Either we use the paper or we use your bowtie.”

Sam frowned and backed away defensively, his hands shielding his bow, “But I worked hard on it!”

Holding in a laugh at his brother’s whining protest, Nathan rushed Sam while he reluctantly stretched the paper into a thin fold like a wick, shoving it into Y/N’s hands who gave a delighted grin and hummed a small thanks. Pleased by his compliancy, Nathan gave Sam a comforting pat on the shoulder, ignoring the ‘ _sweet, little bowtie…_ ’ muttering from his lips. For a second, he actually wanted to watch it burn.

**༻0:20༺**

Y/N took the paper firmly in hand before rolling her thumb down the spark wheel, kindling a fire that burnt the corner of the paper, before being engulfed in a brilliant blaze to the left side of the cup. Sam made a little sigh of disappointment while Nathan shushed him as Y/N ignited the lighter again, hovering it close on the right. She prayed silently that she wouldn’t suffer any second-degree burns. 

Patience was a virtue to treasure-hunters, it seemed. The three rolled with the silence, looking for any sign of change in the color of the cup. A few seconds had passed, then many, but there was still no difference to the color of the chalice. The potential treasure might be a crock of shit, after all. Y/N gave a low sigh, putting away the lighter and stomping out the paper that had been heavily charred on the corner, giving a sad shrug to the boys.

“Seriously? Nothing?” Sam frowned deeply, gasping the cup out of Y/N’s hands, “No, no, no…this can’t be it. Shit, are you kidding me!?”

“Sam, hey, relax. It’s alright,” Nathan tried to soothe, but Sam kept shaking his head in frustration, “Come on, man.”

Well, that didn’t help at all.

Sam had slammed the cup in Y/N’s hands in a huff, storming off towards the other end of the room while Nathan followed after him to help calm his nerves. She could hear them arguing, a brotherly— _a sibling_ —trait. Something she’d rather not get into. Y/N felt a painful heat on the rim of the cup as she set it down back on the display case, frowning at the intricate designs that served no absolute purpose. Was it all just a bust? There must be more to it than that.

_Was coming here really such a good idea?_

Y/N froze upon such a thought, glancing down at her feet where she sees the piles of bodies that lay so bloody and out in the open. Her breath is swept from her chest, every last bit, as the gravity of the situation comes down on her hard. She killed them, they’re _killing_ them. Y/N promised herself she would stop doing this, she swore. Y/N gripped at her hair, tugging at her roots as a heaving whimper left her lips. They were wet, she noticed, and tasted like copper.

“Nathan, there’s got to be more—“

“—But there isn’t any, Sam. I’m sorry, okay? This was our only lead and it just— _poof_ —went up in smoke. The treasure was potential, we said it ourselves.”

_So everything was really just for nothing, huh?_ Now, that guilt was really eating her up. 

Y/N rubbed her face, ignoring the red that smeared her bottom lip, glaring at the sight of the god with no face, “Thanks a lot, you drunk.”

Funny, he couldn’t even glare back.

_Stupid drunkard…drunk…_

Y/N blinked at Dionysus’s missing face, his _missing_ face. He was a drunk. He was missing a face. He was the god of wine and partying. He got drunk off of wine. He can’t drink without his face. He was the face of wine! _He’s missing his **wine!**_

_“His wine!”_ Y/N finally cries out, gathering the boy’s aghast expressions as her voice cuts through their argument, _“We need wine!”_

It was peculiarly strange being related to a historian, Nathan and Sam Drake knew that much. They had their fair share of abnormal experiences that merged during their family time, particularly because of their late mother, who was a revered historian. All of those strange occurrences, that familiar déjà vu of being enraptured by a historian was flooding all back—radiating from Y/N who took them by the arms and brought them back to the cup they deemed as useless.

“Whoa, Y/N! What the hell are you talking about? What wine?” Nathan quizzically asked.

“Look, Dionysus is the god of wine and partying, we know that. On the cup, for some reason, he’s missing his face. I thought that it was a little strange but then I realized that it’s much, much more,” Y/N gestured excitedly to the spot where Dionysus’s face was supposed to be, “Dionysus was a drunk. He was the literal face of wine in mythology. Without his wine, he’s nothing— _we’ve got nothing._ But if we fill the cup with wine _and then_ shine the light on the cup—“

“—Then, we’ll find out where the treasure is!” Sam concludes, up and back again with that eager grin of his.

“Well, who’s gonna get the wine?” Nathan prompted, glancing at his brother and Y/N who both suddenly looked reluctant.

_Fils de pute **³**_ _…_

**༻0:09༺**

He’s still up there, that man. 

Maybe they had come across each other during her travels around the world. A stranger perhaps that made her do a double-take? That could be the case, Y/N knows for certain that she had never spoken to him before. He was answering questions from the audience, important people for sure, asking about the museum’s property values and what this entrepreneur had planned for the future. Much of it fell as gibberish upon Y/N’s ears.

“Using the money that was earned from this amazing event, the AOD firm and I will be donating these funds to charities, low-income clinics, and special education services in London.”

_Seriously, where the fuck did Harry find this guy?_

Speaking of Harry, there he was; stumbling across the podium with part of her tail-lights still clutched in his hand while the other held an open wound on the back of his head. Y/N paled at the sight, watching as Harry leaned over to talk to his employer, speaking frantically, giving an earful of British curses and swears. She makes a beeline for the bar, trying to block out the statical noise again, her request for a delicious red wine tumbling out of her mouth in a single slur. The bartender is sure that she’s drunk— _Y/N wished she still was._

She had became the one to order the wine in the end, making sure not to trip over the bodies aligned up the hallway, her heels making an impression on their cheeks whenever they slumped over her toes.

Victor was waiting for them in the parking lot, Nathan refuted into the ear-piece, although it took a while after a bunch of armed guards came up screaming, trying to kick him off the premises. Y/N winced, making a mental note to pay for his next pack of off-brand Cuban cigars, or better yet, buy some goddamn real ones this time. Scratch that, buy real ones, doubled.

Buy Cuban cigars, maim the Drake brothers. Yeah, that sounds like a good to-do list.

**“Y/N!”**

_Oh, fuck._

Before she knew it, Y/N found herself preparing to book it across the museum.

_Why did Harry have to use her real name!? Real discreet, mate!_

The bartender is stunned by the speed of Y/N’s hand that snatches the glass of wine before it even reaches over the counter. The wine manages to spill over the rim in a red wave, trickling down to her wrist that she nervously laps up with the tip of her tongue while she hops over and out of the bar stool. Hot on her heels are Harry and a few of his men, those who weren’t guarding their destination were making their way over now. Y/N sweats bullets when he hears Harry’s _Desert—5_ load throughout the room, speeding down the hallway.

“Guys! We have company! _ **I** have company!”_ Y/N shrieks as she hears a bullet fire, rolling for cover behind one of the hallways.

**_“Hold on! Get out of the open! Stay where you are! We’ll come and find you!”_** Sam instructs sternly, where Y/N also hears the cock of a gun on the line.

“Not an option, _enculé **⁴**_ _!_ ” 

There was a chorus of screaming at the end of the hallway, ricochetting off of the walls of the curving corridor, deafening what parts of her hearing she had left that hadn’t been affect by the static. Y/N manages to sneak a glance behind her shoulder, seeing Harry with his gun taking aim and men behind him, unstrapping their rifles and pistols from their holsters. She couldn’t reach for her own gun as she clasped her other hand over the entire rim, praying on her luck alone as she rounds the corner.

“Nathan! Sam!” Y/N is close to crying _, is she crying?_ She can certainly feel something wet on her cheeks, wondering if it was blood or tears as she finally reaches the entry to the Late Roman exhibit. 

“Take cover!” Sam demands while he takes the aim of his _Spas-12_ while Nathan loads a _Jericho 941._

_Don’t spill the wine, don’t spill the wine, don’t spill the **fucking** wine!_

Chaos has unfolded quite quickly in the span of thirty minutes, Y/N should be proud of herself. Unwelcome memories begin to swarm through her head, her heartbeat accelerates with every image. Things are going wrong on both ends, she notes, remembering how that man can’t remove the cup yet due to the full-house. With everyone screaming and creating a panic, the crowd is either gonna leave or ask their creepily-compassionate host what to do. _The best thing_ , she wonders aloud as she sidles the wall near the entrance, eyes wide with terror as bullets from both sides whizz beside her, _what’s the best thing to do?_

Y/N sees Sam and Nathan gesture and shout at her, something along the lines of _‘run’ or ‘go’_. Certainly, they don’t mean exit the room—no, they’re talking about the cup. _Fill the fucking cup_ , they say. She screams at her limbs that shake with the thundering waves of gunfire, threatening to collapse. Nathan and Sam have taken cover behind the display cases and vitrines, glass showering everywhere from Harry’s men. While she is saved from the spray, Y/N stumbles forward, her hand uncovers the rim of the glass and drips red. She wonders if she sliced herself on the glass under her thumb that broke off when she rolled.

_Don’t think about it. Don’t fucking think about it._

_What’s the best thing to do, Y/N?_

_“Y/N! Get out of the—“_

Y/N runs for the cup in a desperate lurch, one powerful enough to send her flying and painful enough to strain the vessels in her calf. The wine sloshes violently under her palm and spilling some, but Y/N isn’t worried of the small puddle that stains her blouse. She is determined to pour the wine inside this cursed chalice. She rips out Sam’s lighter from her pockets and the remnants of the burnt paper, wasting only a mere second to set it ablaze. On both sides, the cup’s ridiculous ritual is complete, and Y/N searches frantically for any difference.

Finally, the chalice begins to morph its jade green and blood red color. They blend together for a mere second, taking her breath away when it fades into a beautiful blue—as blue as the sea, she thinks again. Y/N turns the cup to the side where Dionysus shows his face. She nearly squeals through her panic. _His face!_

There are words now, she sees, greek letters that are inscribed with a darker blue that shines through the rim of the cup.

**_Korinthos_**. 

_“Y/N!”_

Someone yelled out her name just now.

Someone was _behind_ _her_ just now.

_Someone just shot her in the ear just now._

Y/N falls to her knees, taking the cup down with her that spills the wine and extinguishes the flame from the lighter and the paper. It’s soaked with red from the wine— _wait, no_ —her blood. It’s much darker, it’s thicker. Y/N manages to turn her head over her shoulder to look at Sam and Nathan, prepared to throw a swear at them while she asks just who shot a chunk of her ear off into her left hand. But they’re standing elsewhere now, no longer cowering behind the broken display cases but is struggling in the hands of numerous geared men. 

Harry is there. He’s frowning.

_Was he really that mad at me?_

No. He’s mad at someone else—glaring at someone else.

It’s him, instead. It’s that man. 

“My apologies, Little Miss. You have something of mine. Give it back to me.”

**Oh.**

_“Arthur,”_ Y/N is overwhelmed by her breathless, shaking realization, _“Arthur Pearce.”_

**༻0:00༺**

* * *

**author's notes:**

1\. a quick face claim of [Arthur Pearce](https://cdna.artstation.com/p/assets/images/images/002/760/998/large/andrei-cristea-head-long.jpg?1484744222) by Andrei Cristea.

**french vocabulary:**

**[ keep in mind, i am not a native french/etc. speaker - if there are translation errors in my story, please let me know. ]**

1\. _merde_ ; shit

2\. _dieu pardonne mes péchés_ ; god forgive my sins

3\. _enculé;_ motherfucker

4. _fils de pute; son of a bitch_


	4. ─ 4 ─

## 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐑𝐚𝐯𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐫𝐬

**𝙳𝚎𝚌𝚎𝚖𝚋𝚎𝚛 𝟸𝟸, 𝟷𝟿𝟾𝟽**

What did most children get on Christmas? Do they get sweets? Model trains? Pretty dollies? Fashionable clothes? _Anything and everything?_ That would be splendid, quite the life to live. An impossible task that 8-year-old Y/N could not think of achieving. For she was poor, a street rat, left to wander and dream in the streets of Switzerland, Martigny. 

Such luxurious things were always blocked from Y/N by a glass window. Her grubby, thin fingers splayed wider on the glass while the tip of her sooty nose pressed harder against it. Her eyes batted away at the snow on her lashes, blinking wondrously at the warm lights of the toy shop she tried so many times to enter in. The shop owner would be coming outside with a broom in a few minutes, _but look!_ There was a new arrival plush animals on the left shelf.

_Just one_ , Y/N thought innocently and desperately, _just one would do._

She, like many other children, had become pick-pockets. They took whatever they could and gave nothing back. They grew up cruel but the world was crueler. How many times did a wealthy man hit them with their canes just because a homeless child smiled at them? How many butchers chased homeless children with knives just because they wanted to look at the meats and imagine they were actually eating happily for once? Frankly, _too damn many._

Scraps and crumbs, beggars and fools, Y/N wished she could get away from the unyielding cold of the world and seek her own fortune. If she had to; she would steal it in a heartbeat.

**_“Y/N!”_** A voice screamed out through the winter’s night, startling the poor girl who jumped away from the window. 

There, running down the side-walk with a shiny, golden pocket-watch in his hand was _Ethan Stagg_. Beside him was _Luka Reid,_ the youngest of the group that had joined tonight’s lift. They were panting and staggering, red-face and winded like wet tomatoes. They looked horrified, like some monstrous beast was biting at their heels with big jaws to boot. When they crossed each other’s paths, Ethan yanked her by the hand down the road, practically dragging her to the darker parts of the streets— _the off-limit places._

_Why wasn’t Anna with them?_

_“Ethan, qu'est qui s'est passé!?”_ Y/N asked alarmed; _Ethan, what happened!?_

_“Étaient morts,”_ Ethan kept repeating, _“Étaient morts, Étaient morts, nous sommes morts putain!”_

_We’re dead. We’re dead, We’re dead, We’re **fucking** dead!_

_Who was dead?_

Luka did not say a thing, petrified from what he had seen. He managed to snag the back of Y/N’s torn hood of her jacket, not allowing himself to fall—to get caught. His breathing was rapid and heavy, sputtering through puckered lips that had only worried Y/N more. Luka had terrible asthma, it was a miracle that he was even moving at this point. Why can’t they stop to rest? Why let Luka endure more pain? Y/N’s questioning thoughts simmered as Ethan had taken them to a nearby alley, full of bagged garbage that had a pungent odor that reminded Y/N of molded onions.

_“Cacher! Rapidement!” Hide,_ he said, _quickly!_

_What was happening? Who was dead?_

_“Ethan—“_ Y/N tried to say, but Ethan had been helping Luka sit upright, trying to calm him down with long, deep breaths.

Y/N had ducked down low to the ground, finding the pocket-watch Ethan had stolen. It was from the 1800’s, Y/N could easily tell, tracing her fingers along the rims of gold. The glass had been smudged with blood—sticking to her fingers—and the hour hand had been an hour late. She threw a glance at Ethan, gripping the golden chain and waved it furiously in front of his sweating face.

_“Il y a du sang, pourquoi?”_ She asked hotly, _“Réponds-moi!”_

_Why is there blood? Answer me!_

_“Cela n'a pas d’importance **¹**_ _.”_ Ethan spat angrily between his breaths.

_It doesn’t matter!? How does it not matter!?_

_“E-Ethan…!”_

Luka was not any better, sucking cold air while his life depended on it, threatening to double over on Ethan’s lap. His face was as white as the falling snow, cold and wet, Y/N threw her coat over the gasping boy, horrified by his shivering. Ethan kept Luka propped up on one knee, holding his shoulder with his hand that had been stained with blood by his knuckles, and all Ethan could do was try and get his attention. Y/N herself panicked, this was bad. This was really, _really_ bad. It had never gotten this bad before. Ethan always knew what to do. He took care of the others when they were sick, what would he do with himself if a six-year-old died on his watch?

_No, no way was that happening!_

But now, Ethan himself looked lost, seemingly deeming himself useless now.

_“Luka,”_ Y/N said quietly, joining Ethan on the ground, _“Luka, frérot…”_

This is the first time she’d ever called him brother. _Anna Bier_ called all the boys that name, and sister if they were a girl. She would sing it whether if she had just met them or if she said it to her closest friends, like Ethan, despite being the oldest boy among them. Ethan never called anyone nicknames, he wasn’t one for informalities, finding it comforting for him and others if he would call the children by their names. Y/N, overall, just didn’t talk to anyone. A lone stray, a dreamer whose head is higher in the sky than the clouds. She cared, she really did.

_“Luka—“_

_“Y/N.”_ Ethan said her name quiet and low. 

She threw a glare up at him— _why wasn’t he helping now_ —before realizing that he was looking elsewhere. The alley had gone exceptionally darker, as if someone was looming over them. Ethan’s hazel eyes were rooted to the entrance of the alley, and Y/N had looked, too as she tried to shield Luka with her back. What she saw wasn’t Anna or any of the other children who they had wanted to come to their rescue. No, it wasn’t either of them, Y/N had seen; it was just a boy.

_**Clean**_ , her mind instantly thought. This boy was clean. He didn’t have any dirt on his nose or mud on his shoes. He wasn’t like the homeless children. If anything, he looked like royalty. He wore iron-pressed shirts that were pristine white under a sapphire-blue coat, short slacks that were as dark as the night sky. He looked older than Ethan was, but not stronger—leaner and thin. The gun in his hand compensated for that, she supposed.

_“Te voilà.”_ The boy’s voice echoed into the night, aiming his gun towards the cowering children.

**_There you are._ **

_Those eyes are as blue as the sea,_ Y/N thought fleetingly.

_“Ethan—“_

_“Fuir.”_

**Escape.** He said it so quietly, his voice was almost overpowered by the sound of the gun loading that bounced off the alley walls. 

_“Ethan!”_

_“Nom de dieu! Il a une arme!” For God’s sake! He has a gun! “Fuir!” Escape!_

_Merde! Merde! Merde!_

_“Mes excuses, petite mademoiselle. Vous avez quelque chose à moi. Me le rendre **²**_ _.”_

༻✧༺

It’s been nearly a decade since they’ve seen each other.

Arthur didn’t look any different, still as clean as ever. His gun was the same, too; a colt with gold inlays in the grips. It really suited such a rich, entitled _asshole_ like him. Y/N stared up into the barrel, completely disregarding the fact that Arthur just shot off a piece of her ear that fell onto her lap with the Lycurgus cup.

_Did he?_ She questioned faintly, she didn’t even notice. It had been that way since she was young; an abnormality with shock against pain. She didn’t feel any of it. All she knew for sure was that Nathan and Sam was screaming about it.

Y/N wondered if she was back in the Martigny alley that night, familiar textures coating onto her palms that smelt metallic and grotesque. _Luka’s_ breathing— _Nathan’s_ hoarse breathing, and _Ethan’s_ yelling— _Sam’s_ yelling. They were all coming back to her. Those _smelly onions—the wine_ was sour on her tongue that peaked from her lips when she was about to answer Arthur, but she shut it on instinct. This wasn’t how treasure-hunters stood their ground. Y/N grew up better than that. The cold of that winter is akin to the chill Arthur brings down her spine when he loads his gun, and the voice in Y/N’s throat is stuck.

“Are you listening, Miss Voleuse Paire? Should I repeat it in a way that you might understand?” Arthur sighed, leveling the gun in between Y/N’s eyes, _“Mes excuses, petite mademoiselle. Vous avez quelque chose à moi. Me le rendre.”_

She doesn’t want to give it back. She **_can’t_** give it back, not after everything that happened. Y/N glanced over Arthur’s shoulder to see Sam and Nathan, still struggling and fighting against the men who had bound them. For a moment, she vividly sees Ethan and Luka in the grips of rich men again. On the other shoulder, Y/N saw Harry, looking away and uncomfortable, like he didn’t have anything to do with this asshole who was pointing a gun at her. Y/N felt another sense of deja vu, frowning, _he’s done it again._

“You are one stupid asshole, Harry _fucking_ Flynn.” Y/N growls lowly, appreciating the chuckle that Arthur makes, giving a slow nod.

“That he is, isn’t he?” Arthur delves his sight to Harry who shrinks into the corner of the exhibit, shaking his head and moves the barrel to the bottom of her chin, “I find it so hard to believe that you and him had something once. What happened? _Enemies turned lovers then back to enemies?”_

“You should know, Pearce, you were bloody there,” Y/N spits angrily, earning a harsh shove in the neck that makes her head crane against the wall, _"Enculé…”_

“You son of a bitch!” Sam yells, trying to struggle out of the goon’s grips, “Get the hell away from her!”

_“Adu-l **³**_ _. Tăcere **⁴**_ _,”_ Arthur commanded in Romanian this time, where one of his men comes over and grabs the cup from Y/N’s lap and another punches Sam in the gut, ignoring her shuddering protests, _“Merci beaucoup, Mademoiselle. Nous nous rencontrerons à nouveau. Oui? **⁵**_ _”_

Arthur smoothly stands from his knees to retrieve the Lycurgus cup from his men, tucking his gun back into his holster while he keeps a firmly still grip on Y/N’s knee with his shoe. He commands something again, his voice was sharp and uncaring as he slices through the thickening atmosphere. His men gives him a cup of wine, Arthur must have seen Y/N trailing off with one a few minutes ago, and pours it into the chalice. Unfortunately for the three thieves, the Lycurgus cup is still scalding hot.

Arthur doesn’t bat an eyelash to the scorching sensation—if anything, it _excited_ him. The blue words are set ablaze for Arthur to see, where his own eyes are like brilliant reflective sapphires against the flame. His smile curls longer and wider, twisting from serene to elated as he relishes in his procured clue. He must have hired the wrong men, Y/N wondered, thinking about how many asshole hunters tend to do that a lot. Nathan and Sam were brought down to their knees, their limbs beginning to bind with zip-ties. Y/N rolled the bloody chunk of her ear from her palm and in between her fingers. 

“Holy shit.” She heard Nathan mutter.

_Yeah, exactly. **Holy shit.**_

“ _Korinthos_. The south-central island of Greece,” Arthur finally says, leaning forward to caress the crown of Y/N’s head, “ _Bien joué **⁶**_ , Miss Y/N. I must admit, I could not have solved this without you. I’ll be sure to send my regards to the Arcane family, after I send them your head.”

That must have been the final straw for Sam Drake. There was a lot of pent up anger in him, Nathan knew that, too. The older brother jerked his elbow backwards and into the nose of one of the goons, snapping the unfinished zip-ties apart before landing punches on whoever was closest. Nathan took advantage of the staggering moment, throwing his head back to knock down who held him. There, the brothers Drake engaged in a fist fight, seconds away of creating their own lines of fire.

“Get down!” Harry’s voice shouted before the beginning of the gunfire, running up close to protect Arthur and Y/N, meanwhile firing his own bullets towards the Drake brothers who took their own covers.

“This is unfortunate.” Arthur mumbled, reaching for his gun in his holster before getting socked in the upper jaw.

Arthur stumbled over his heels into Harry’s back, causing him to topple over onto the floor. His blazing blue eyes had glared above into the light, finding Y/N’s shadow dashing away above him. She breaks into a sprint across the exhibit and puts her hands above her head, shielding herself pathetically from the bullets that manages to graze her. Y/N tells her fear to take a hike, covering a hand over her bloody ear before taking cover. 

She reaches for her pistol that trembles in her palms, trying desperately to relax her fingers that encircle the trigger. Her aim is shaky and as steady as her breathing, Y/N opens fire against the rear end of the goons. Sam and Nathan are at opposite ends of the room, and Y/N sees that Harry has gotten up with Arthur. Managing to take down at least five out of the twelve men, she hears Sam’s voice shout across the rounds of bullets.

“Y/N! Nathan! Get out of here! Get out through the window just outside the exhibit!” 

“We’re not leaving you here!” Nathan responds, continuing to fire.

“I’ll make it! Stop arguing!” 

**_“Guys, where the hell are you!? The museum lot is chaos out here!”_** Victor’s voice is like a blessing from above—a smoking angel—and Y/N fights the urge to smile through the settling pain, **_“And I don’t wanna alarm you, but there’s a lot of suspicious cars that just pulled up. Get the hell out of there!"_**

“We’ll be there in a minute!” Nathan shouts after ducking his head. 

Arthur hasn’t finished with her yet, it seems. Y/N remembers the simpler times of what could happen if she got caught by her boss for skipping out on work, not what kinds of flowers she would want on her funeral casket. She gave her prayers to her bank account and cursed the landlord should he break into her flat and collect the invalidated rent money. She will seriously haunt his fifty-four-year-old ass if he so much as knocks on the door—the guy was a shark, he deserves it. 

Y/N, however, would love to haunt Arthur who’s hellbent on putting a bullet between her eyes. 

Y/N maintains her distance from Harry, who tries to charge for her but is stopped by Sam, landing a solid blow in the nose. The Brit curses loudly and rolls to the floor, earning a disappointed click of the jaw from Arthur who takes his own aim. Nathan manages to disarm Pearce from his precious gun, thwarting sideways and striking him across the cheek. Y/N drinks in the sight eagerly, waving her arm out to the boys and comes out of her spot.

_“Let’s go!”_ Y/N’s command is heeded almost instantly, the boys joining her as they bullet down the exit.

Arthur Pearce and Harry Flynn get up from the ground, holding whatever was bruised and sore. All that was left behind was blood and bodies in their wake—a mess that Arthur was most displeased of seeing. Their back-up, it seems, was a few seconds too late, watching as his men rush in with weapons and gear that could’ve been useful a minute ago. His useless associate, Harry holds his bloody nose, leaning against the vitrine and makes a painful grunt, while Arthur makes one out of disappointment.

They stole the Lycurgus cup.

Y/N and the boys haul-ass to Victor’s car from the window, remarkably the only one that had remained in the lot. They climbed down from a few ledges before sliding down a utility pole, whereafter Y/N’s hands reeked of copper and cold. As she stuffed herself in the backseat with Sam who was tending to his wounds, Y/N shifted the cup in her hands with a frown, letting out a shaky sigh as the blue-lit words finally disappeared back into a shell of green.

_Korinthos_. Their next stop.

And Arthur, _that bastard,_ is their competitor.

༻✧༺

Y/N remembered what Luka wanted for Christmas; an _Omnibot 2000._

The kid wanted to be an engineer for as long as he could remember. To have one of his own would make Luka the luckiest kid in the world that holiday. He wanted to build robots— _big, giant, strong robots_ —save the world with them, visit space, build a better world. _A child’s innocence was truly a marvel_ , she remembered Ethan saying. She hoped that the pocket-watch that she had kept her eye on for the past two days would make Luka’s dream come true, and all they needed to do was steal it, just like any other gig. 

Luka could’ve saved the world. 

The boy’s name was Arthur Pearce, Y/N had discovered, he was the heir to some architect corporation called the _AOD_. Apparently, they were famous and well-known around town, stirring enough gossip and talk that could be heard by the Ravagers—their group, Y/N’s group. The children were counting on this, their leaders; Ethan, Anna, and Y/N. They were hoping to give them a big score so that they could survive the end of the winter as their rations were dangerously low, and Y/N acted as their ears as she listened to their prayers.

Y/N had been hearing about this boy for weeks now, and have finally heard something of value on him by the Ravager’s eyes, Luka; a pocket-watch. 

_A pocket-watch!_ Luka exclaimed, _a pocket-watch made of gold! It was old and it was working._

_Pocket-watch it was, then._

_How much was the cost of this pocket-watch? How much was it worth?_

Arthur had stared down the barrel of his colt, seeing his target; Y/N, who did not move away from either of the boys. Ethan was holding Luka by the shoulders, trying to not escalate his asthma further as they had been discovered and is in incredible danger. _The kid was **six** , for crying out loud!_ _Can’t he just take it easy and stop scaring him!?_

He held out his hand, gloved black and waving expectantly, _“Me le rendre.”_

Y/N glanced down at the watch and back at the gun, thinking how much more the weapon could have been worth than this bloody object.

_“Maintenant.” Now._

_“Y/N, le lui donne pas **⁷**_ _!”_ Ethan was desperate— _why shouldn’t she give it to him!? “Nous en avons plus besoin **⁸**_ _!”_

Yes, we do need it more. She knows that.

The Ravagers was a city of children living in the slums, taking what they could and gave nothing back. Y/N, Ethan, and Anna were the founders, protectors of the many children who were once like them; abandoned and forgotten, lost and alone. They hoped to change that as they stole from those who took such things for granted. _Deserve_ , what’s **_deserve_** got to do with any of it? Y/N just didn’t want anyone to get hurt; she just wants to live to see the day she gets a plush from the shelf.

_“Pourquoi? Pourquoi c'est important?” Why? Why was it important_ , she asked, somehow desperate to find the answer. 

_Stall him_ , Y/N told herself, anything. Just don’t make him shoot.

Arthur Pearce was a thirteen-year-old rich brat. Such a thing was useless to him at this age. He had all the time in the world to devour his toys and luxuries, not having to live a day fighting for it, worrying about the time that he would own anyway. Y/N didn’t understand nor sympathize, and quite frankly, she didn’t want to.

_“C'est un cadeau de mon père **⁹**_ _,” A gift from his father?_ The chairman of the AOD, what was his name, _Augustus Pearce?_ Y/N can see, however, his heir’s patience wearing thin, _“S'il vous plaît? Tu ne veux pas qu'ils soient blessés. Le faites vous?”_

_Please? You don't want them to be hurt. Do you?_

No, anything but that.

_“Y-Y/N!”_

Luka’s voice comes out through sputtering sobs, eliciting her neck to whip around to see him, her glare softening as she sees his gasping face and flowing tears. All she could think about was that Ottoman: 2000, thinking about how Luka’s face came alight with a smile—something she hadn’t seen in _days_ —and his precious laughter that warmed her heart that December morning.

_Luka…The Ravagers…_

_“J-je ne peux pas—“_

_I-I can’t—!_

_“—J'ai pensé ainsi.”_

_I thought so._

_**BANG!** _

**“Luka!”**

_How much did that pocket-watch cost? How much was it worth?_

_Was it worth Luka getting shot dead in an alley?_

_No, no it **fucking** wasn’t._

༻✧༺

The ride back to the motel was quiet. Y/N tried to take her mind off what had just transpired in the museum, focusing on remembering every little bit of London that passed by though the window. She had ignored Sam’s insistent nagging for her to patch up her wounds on her arms, deciding that Nathan needed it more since he suffered a serious gash from the glass on his thigh. Victor didn’t try to pry information out of Y/N, rightfully deciding to let her bask in her own little word. But he couldn’t help but wonder just what the hell was bothering her.

Her car had left back at the museum lot, but Y/N was certain that Arthur and his goons were going to total it. She didn’t feel a tad bit guilty about it, she could’ve cared less about that shitty car. What concerned her the most was the cup sitting on the table, filled to the brim with red wine that was complimentary to the room. Sam tipped the employee a single buck, and Y/N could practically feel the rage seep into the room as Sam closed the door. 

Y/N finally cleaned her wound, thank god, the pain didn’t affect her until she got in the car. When she looked at that small hole in the mirror, red and pink, oozing blood in some spots, all Y/N could think about was what kind of earring she could get to cover it. Something stylish? Something cute? She would have to ask Nathan, who clearly had a better taste of fashion than Sam. He helped her, too, dabbing hydrogen peroxide and holding her hand while she nearly screamed at the stinging pain.

_Arthur should have killed me_ , Y/N whined, _I wouldn’t have to put up with this bullshit!_

Nathan had bought some candles from the outlet store on the way to the motel, lighting two of them to illuminate both sides. It took a while for the candles to actually induce heat. Besides the blood that stained every-so inch of the surface, the word that Y/N had previously read was beginning to appear as clear as day. 

“Korinthos. Arthur said that it’s an island in south-central Greece. But…I don’t get it, what’s so special about it?” Nathan asked as he took a seat with the others around the table, his chin resting under his palm, “Sam?”

“Don’t look at me. Greece was my least favorite topic,” Sam shrugged innocently before throwing an apologetic glance at Y/N, “No offense.”

“None taken.” Y/N muttered quietly, earning some concerned glances but decided not to press.

“So, Lucius and his cult worships Dionysus…the face of wine. Korinthos is a place of worship for _Poseidon_ …” Nathan drawled out, eyes expectant towards Y/N who gave a low sigh, “Guess these guys also worshiped whatever kept them sober.”

“It’s also a place of worship for _Athena_ , the goddess of war and the female counterpart of _Ares_ ,” Victor elaborated, puffing his cigar, “I guess these gods were like… _guardians?_ Lucius worshipped them to protect his treasure?”

“Could be,” Sam agreed, earning the two men’s similar appeased look, “I guess we just need the approval of our star historian, here.”

Y/N’s halfhearted attempt to remain solemn proved somewhat useful. She didn’t want to appear miserable, and she certainly didn’t want to break down into tears. Those harsher memories are trying so ruthlessly hard not to resurface and bring down this eventful day. With a new clue to follow for a lost treasure, Y/N should have been much more indifferent to scraping her knees. Yet, she reminded herself how long it took to get out of it.

It was hard when she first quit the business, having no true home to turn to or reside in, no family and no friends who weren’t practically nomads. Y/N did not have parents, so she was told in that psyche ward. She was a child alone, with her shadow for her only true companion throughout that lonely life. And, it was—it was unbearably lonely. When she sought out the work of Madeleine Grant Arcane, she can remember her dry laugh—full of years of resentment and pity.

_Work for me?_ She howled in that hideous voice of her’s, _of course! Have a chiropractor ready, my dear. You’ll be bending over forward and backwards until you break._

_Why hasn’t she broken yet? Why was Arthur, of all people, involved in something like this?_

“What do you say, darlin’?” Sam prompted once more, eyes begging with hope, and the other two practically had the same sorry-ass faces, “You up for this?”

_If she breaks,_ Y/N thought, _her loneliness might just end._

* * *

**author's notes:**

1\. the face claim of [young] [Ethan Stagg](https://i.pinimg.com/564x/65/b1/dc/65b1dcdffbcec6ec8c6564811a1809d3.jpg) by Evil Maul.

2\. the face claim of [young] [Anna Bier](https://cdnb.artstation.com/p/assets/images/images/015/896/221/large/ophelie-mahl-mimiiii.jpg?1550080647) by Ophélie Mähl.

3\. the face claim of [Luka Reid](https://cdnb.artstation.com/p/assets/images/images/014/252/727/large/gui-wenlong-boy-1.jpg?1543200699) by Gui Wenlong.

**french/romanian vocabulary:**

**[ keep in mind, i am not a native** **french/etc. speaker - if there are translation errors in my story, please let me know. ]**

1\. _cela n'a pas d’importance_ ; it doesn't matter

2\. _mes excuses, petite mademoiselle. vous avez quelque chose à moi. me le rendre;_ my apologies, little miss. you have something of mine. give it back to me

3. _adu-l; bring it_

4 _. tăcere; silence_

5\. _merci beaucoup, mademoiselle. nous nous rencontrerons à nouveau. oui?; thank you very much, miss. we will meet again. yes?_

6. _bien joué; well done_

7. _le lui donne pas; don't give it to him_

8 _. nous en avons plus besoin; we need it more_

9\. _c'est un cadeau de mon père; it's a gift from my father_


	5. ─ 5 ─

## 𝐎𝐟 𝐋𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐒𝐞𝐚

“Arthur Pearce, born on _November 13, 1976_ , a _Scorpio_ and year of the _Dragon_ from _Ha Long Bay, Vietnam_ —huh, what a coincidence. Descendant of a Romano and German family empire, he owns one of the largest architectural real-estate corporations called the _AOD_ and is an esteemed philanthropist. He can speak about twenty-five different languages, studied in _Korea, Russia,_ and _the States,_ named the wealthiest bachelor of the west coast—“

“—And is the biggest asshole to walk the face of the planet,” Y/N finished with a venomous hiss before throwing a glare at Sam, crinkling her nose to the magazine article, “Jesus, Sam. Can you give it a rest? I’m trying to focus, here.”

Aboard Sully’s rented plane, the group is forty thousand feet in the air crossing over Italy. Y/N inwardly wished that they could have stopped to see _Sassi di Matera_ along the coast, but instead stomached the endless oceanic horizon from a small window panel of a rickety airship that was plagued with turbulence every-so hour. The boys had passed their time researching on just who this Arthur Pearce jackass was, and what the connections were with the black-market. Y/N, however, had only been keeping her hopes up as she sulked in the back of the plane, holding the Lycurgus cup that felt pleasantly warm. 

She had been looking at the blue-lit words for a while now, fifty-times over. The lighter ran out of fluid half an hour ago. The connection to the island of Corinth and the Lycurgus cup did not resolve her endless curiosities, wondering just what kind of treasure Lucius had tried to hide from the Romans and what Poseidon and Athena had to do with it. While Athena was scarcely worshiped there, based on her research of flipping through endless texts of Greece poetry and records of Caesar’s trial, there was only one trace of the island of Corinth.

_“𝘍𝘰𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘰𝘥 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘴𝘦𝘢 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘰𝘥𝘥𝘦𝘴𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘢𝘵 𝘦𝘲𝘶𝘢𝘭𝘴. 𝘍𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘨𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘯𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘣𝘳𝘰𝘬𝘦 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘨𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘢 𝘴𝘱𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘨𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘵 𝘴𝘱𝘦𝘢𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘧𝘦𝘭𝘭 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘰𝘤𝘦𝘢𝘯 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘢 𝘵𝘳𝘦𝘦. 𝘍𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘤𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘢𝘯 𝘪𝘴𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘰𝘧 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘱, 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘪𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘦 𝘦𝘲𝘶𝘢𝘭.”_

The passage of text was on one of her expedition pamphlets, ironically. Y/N cursed that coincidence when she discovered the clue. To their luck, and with a little help from Victor’s bargaining with an old friend across the English channel for a few weapons, their new lead was solid upon the next steps after arriving to their destination. Y/N was certain that Arthur was already there, surely he had flown in his own private jet rather than this old plane—no offense to Victor.

She couldn’t help but think of Harry, wondering why he would kiss her head so frankly after everything he did—even after saying that he wanted to catch up.

_God dammit, he really was an idiot, wasn’t he?_

“The lore checks out,” Y/N remembers Nathan saying when he was actually focused on the mission, “Poseidon and Athena had a big thing going on, fighting over who got control over what, who got this and who got that…Corinth was just one of Poseidon’s victories. If Lucius came here to lead us to his treasure, then this is out best bet.”

“I don’t get it,” Sam wondered aloud, “Lucius was _Roman_ but he worshiped _Greek_ gods? That doesn’t make any sense, even if he was an enemy.”

“Well, the Greek gods and the Roman gods are practically the same. Roughly, the cult’s pantheon had mostly renamed these guys. Like how they called _Gaia, the Great Mother._ My best guess is that they just didn’t want to get in trouble,” Nathan explains with a shrug, “Since they worshipped Dionysus for their rituals, why wouldn’t they worship Poseidon and Athena to protect their treasure?”

A beat of silence passed before Sam nods his head, “Good point.”

Sam had made a bet with some drachma coin he nicked from the museum, sneaky bastard, that the location of the treasure was conveniently within the first temple. Meanwhile, Nathan betted that the treasure was in the last temple, nearly certain that he would keep the coin. It was never in the first temple, he remarked. Cue the hour long bickering that was only silenced when Victor fired a revolver out of the window, claiming he was just _‘testing it’._

Jesus, they truly were a pair of bothersome brothers, weren’t they? Y/N inwardly hoped that they used their focus and enthusiasm on theories and plans, not the bet and fucking Arthur Pearce.

“We’re just trying to layout all the guidelines here, Y/N,” Sam says with a trying smile, “This guy’s apparently not all he seems to be.”

“You have no idea.” 

“Which is all the more reason to check this guy and figure out his motives! Who knows? Maybe we’ll be one-step ahead of him. We’ll find something he won’t.”

Y/N made a small, stubborn huff in response, scraping her nail against the cup harder.

“Listen, Y/N, we just want to know who we’re up against. I mean, the guy’s rich and he’s looking for some lost treasure. Isn’t that a little… _useless?”_ Nathan seemed to agree with Sam’s theory, nodding towards Y/N who only turned around in her seat, “And besides, he has some connection with you. Sounded like a bad one.”

“Almost all my past connections are bad, Sam,” Y/N says with a near laugh, “Arthur Pearce is no different.”

Okay, he honestly **was** but Y/N just wanted some sleep.

“Come on, Y/N,” Sam spoke softer, pressing his elbows to his knees, “You clearly have a bad history with the guy. Some pointers here and there will keep us on our toes. We don’t have a lot to work with so…maybe we can win with what we got?”

There was a lot of things that Y/N kept from the Drake brothers. They were the first ones she had ever met when she went into the treasure-hunting business, and somewhat acted as her mentors with the help of Sullivan, even though she had only started a few years ago. She supposed that those harsher memories had been suppressed so much, they were forgotten entirely. Reducing to a mundane life, which was practically already gone because now Arthur Pearce knows that she’s with them, left her past an unpleasant enigma since she was hellbent on getting it. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to say it—it’s just that she never thought she would ever have to.

_Arthur was a bad guy,_ Y/N would simply say. _But with details?_

“Y/N?” Nathan approached her now, a hand resting on her shoulder, while the other wiped away the tears she hadn’t noticed that fell.

Y/N straightened her spine like an arrow, gnawing at the bottom of her lip while her mind jumbled her memories into a plethora of words. The story of her life versus the story of someone historical was different somehow. She would know how to talk about their life with ease, but not with hers. 

“I don’t…” Y/N looked away with shame, “I don’t know how to say it.”

“Well, just…start with the worst part.” Nathan assures, where he and Sam join Y/N next to her along the seats.

The worst part, huh? Wow, Y/N thought blankly, somehow the worst part was the easiest part to say.

Pushing along the row of bad memories in her life, Y/N picked apart the memories that were either bad or traumatic. Her eyelashes fluttered some, wondering for a second how long she had been spacing out, realizing that, wow, there was a lot. With a few short breaths, nearly inducing some form of post-traumatic-stress, she managed to push the event off of her tongue.

She was stronger than that, she reminded herself, she’s not innocent either.

“He fucking killed my friend,” She whispers, frowning faintly behind her tear-stained palm, taking a few moments before continuing, “We were kids and we had taken some old pocket-watch from him. It was supposed to be a simple lift. In and out, easy. But then he…then he chased us down an alley…holding a gun. We just couldn’t give it to him. We had people who depended on that money,”

“My friend was having a bad asthma attack from running so fast and we were trying to help him. I thought I could negotiate or just talk him out of shooting us if we just gave it back to him. But…” Y/N tenses somewhat as she drops her shoulders into Sam’s chest, “I guess…I guess he got tired of hearing him trying to breathe. So, he just…shot him. He fucking shot my friend dead in some filthy alley.”

_“Jesus.”_ Sam mutters sadly, running a hand across her shoulder before pulling her close, allowing her head to rest on his collar-bone.

But Y/N jerked her head forward in rage.

“He fucking let us keep it! He just left it with us in the end. He said _he didn’t even need it._ He shot my friend and he just walked away without that stupid fucking pocket-watch and didn’t give a _single **damn**_ about Luka!” Y/N rakes her fingers through the roots of her hair, “We had to use that money from pawning the watch for his funeral. In the end, it didn’t even matter. A lot of us died that winter anyway.”

Before Nathan or Sam could ask who _‘us’_ was, Victor’s flying suddenly enters a sequence of harsh turbulences.

“We’re coming up on Corinth! Buckle up if you don’t want to roll right out of the plane!” 

While scrambling to get into and strapping themselves to their seats, they mutter a small prayer.

༻✧༺

Y/N was over the moon when she had received the discount for the hotel room of Corinth. 

It turns out that Arthur didn’t sweep out her bank account information, yet. Y/N wanted to celebrate and go out with a bang as she ordered a bottle of white champagne—the good stuff. She wanted to drink until she was sick, for some reason. She had a long day with so many surprises, she fucking deserves to let off steam. She settled herself in her one-bedroom suite while the boys were next door, taking in the moment of peace and quiet that wasn’t disturbed by the continuous poorly-wired engine of a plane. Hopefully, the boys won’t invite any…guests they’ve met from the bar.

Filling a bath with scorching hot water, she soaked in a hot bath until her hands wrinkled, basking in a happy stupor from the fragrant oils and sensation of clean skin. The grime and dried from under her fingernails had been long gone, where Y/N was keen on scrubbing every last bit of filth, paying extra attention to her crown of her head. Though, no matter how many times she rooted through her head, she can still feel Harry’s lips tingle upon her bubbly crown.

Victor would come and check on her in a few minutes, where she had hoped that his connections came through and provided her with a new gun—her pistol was unfortunately jammed during their escape.

Y/N had felt a little better after she had told Nathan and Sam what had happened all those years ago, finding what others called; _closure_. Could it have been? No, she still felt awful about it. Maybe? There was some weight that was lifted. Y/N shook her head, sending the bubbles in her hair flying as she attempted the block out those doubtful thoughts, lacking the energy to feel guilty just before bed. The boys had given her space, thank god, but somehow, she knows that it won’t end there. 

_“Y/N? Sunshine?”_ Victor’s voice called out from outside of her room, _“Got your stuff right here!”_

Y/N snapped her head towards the door, wiping a hand around her neck with a wavering smile, “Okay, thanks! You can leave on the bed!”

_“All right, then! Goodnight!”_

“Night!”

Y/N sank back into the tub for a few more minutes before finally stepping out, minimally surprised of the large cloud of steam that breezed in from behind her. Thank god the hotel had a gift shop, much preferring to sleep in a baggy souvenir tee and shorts over a bloody blouse and torn slacks. She had thrown them in the dumpster outside the hotel with the boys who threw out their ruined tuxes. Y/N whined a little, saying goodbye to what would probably be the last time they ever dressed nice.

Running a hand through her wetted hair, Y/N suddenly found herself acting like a deer in headlights as she saw Sam Drake sitting on the bed, holding the bottle of champagne she ordered and two glasses. He didn’t even look fazed as she stepped out of the bathroom, wondering if he would have had a different reaction if she came out with just a towel. In truth, she half-expected to walk out of the shower and be held at gunpoint. 

“Evening, darlin’.” Sam greeted, popping the cork of the champagne, a pleasure that Y/N wanted to have experienced for herself.

“Evening,” Y/N greets hesitantly, grabbing the cup before crossing her arms, “I don’t suppose Victor gave you have a bag full of loaded semiautomatic and automatic guns that you’re hiding in your filthy jeans that’s sitting on my clean bed, do you? ”

“Maybe I’m just happy to see you?” Sam asked with a half-hearted smirk, diminishing once he had seen Y/N raising a brow, “Geez, you really aren’t the romantic type, are you? You know, you were never one to flirt.”

Y/N gives a snort, tossing the wet towel from her hair aside, “Romance and flirting are two very different things, Samuel.”

Sam perked his head up in interest, letting Y/N take the bottle from his hands and begin to fill her own glass, “Oh, yeah? What’s the difference?”

There was no difference, was there?

“I’d have to fall in love, Sam.” Y/N raises her glass to his dazed expression before taking a swig. 

_Huh._

Falling in love at 28? Yeah, he’s still got time. Sam took the half empty bottle of bubbling liquor from Y/N with steadying fingers, filling his glass in silence and had occupied himself with watching the thousands of bubbles along the surface, fizzy and light gold—sunshine. She looked anything but ever since they escaped the museum—since she saw Arthur. He wondered how she got that name, besides the swearing part, that bit spoke for itself. Sam had only met Y/N three years ago, two months after Nathan did, but it felt as if they knew each other since childhood.

Sam’s brows almost threw upward—lord, help her if she knew him back then. 

“Has there been any new leads on that _other thing_ you’ve been working on?” Y/N asked, clearly not affixed to the silence, rolling her eyes when Sam gives her a wide look, “That _thing_ that you boys suddenly decided to put off to come here?”

_Oh_ , he had almost forgot about that.

“Ah, well…It wasn’t easy but…our sources narrowed the location down between _Santa Fe_ and _Colombia_ ,” Sam explained, a brightening smile creeping on his lips, “It took us a long time, but I’m sure it’s there. I know it is. We’ve been working on this for five years now, and we’re getting closer each day. You still got the letter, right?”

Giving a small nod, Y/N brushed away a lock of hair behind her ear, “Mm, still holed up in my crummy museum. Although, I’m guessing that after this, I’m just gonna have to go steal it back. Thanks a lot, Harry.”

The last part was delivered in a mumble, most likely saying it to herself. She had some resentment, quite a lot, counting the fact that he had apparently betrayed her trust. Harry Flynn was a well-known treasure-hunter in the business, almost as well-known as the brothers Drake themselves. He was from _Bishopbriggs, UK_ —a frequent traveler around the world when he hit his teens armed with a silver tongue. Sam had to assume the two met somewhere, someday—probably back in her hometown.

“He’s a friend,” Y/N suddenly answers his curiosities, his eyes flickering against her movements as she came closer to squeeze his hand, “We’re all friends, in the end, aren’t we? We had a thing once when we were teenagers. Nothing big or too serious—young love. And somehow, we managed to stay friends.”

So that’s what it was. Something felt like it had just extinguished inside his chest— _jealousy?_ Nah, it couldn’t be.

“What’s the matter, Sam?” Y/N she suddenly asked, finishing her glass before taking the entire bottle from his hands, eyes glistening, **_“Jealous?”_**

_Can it?_

Her skin is soft on his calloused palm. Not that she didn’t have any—but the numbers were just significantly less. It doesn’t affect the warmth, however. It must have been some kind of muscle memory between him and someone he had forgotten—maybe it was that girl, _Crystal_ —that caused him to close his hand around hers. Her touch is gentle, almost uncharacteristic, and Sam loves every bit of it. His fingers try to maintain a loose grip, where he was afraid that she would pull away—disinclined—but he finds himself unable to hold her hand altogether. Is the champagne messing with his head? He’s had five shots in a row before and didn’t feel a _thing_ , but suddenly his head was swimming and full of fuzzy color. 

Y/N lets out the sweetest laugh he’s ever heard in his life, genuine from the back of her throat to the tip of her tongue that stays clenched between her teeth, not wanting to let out a snort. Sam’s smile nearly reaches his eyes as he holds his gaze, tender and all the more warm. For some strange reason, he felt inadequate, unworthy of holding such benevolence. But the way Y/N relaxed with him and smiled so easily, Sam found that happiness out-valued their undiscovered treasure trove.

Y/N almost lets go— _please don’t let go_ —as she takes down the last of the bottle.

_Quite the celebration_ , she thinks.

“Listen, doll…I, _uh_ …” Sam lowered his head, taking a moment to sniff her aroma of complimentary lavender soaps like its the best thing in the world, his throat clenching tighter, “What do you say that, _um_ …y’know after we find this treasure…or not…we could go visit _Venice?_ We could see _St. Mark’s Square,_ go do a canal ride… We could get lost during the night. Anything you want.”

Sam’s eyes peer into Y/N, _Little Miss Swearing-Sunshine_ , and his brown melt into pools of dilated gold, as of he’s watching every bit of an eclipse that draws nearer and closer, but as stubborn and stupid as he was; he could not look away. He drinks in every curve of rising apples in her cheeks, ripened with a rosy smile that his heart thrums upon seeing. Sam nearly shouts with glee as she lowers her head— _she’s fucking **nodding**._

“Sure,” Her voice is soft like the feathers in the pillows he clutches, “I’d like that.”

༻✧༺

Corinth is sunny during the late afternoon, accompanied by a pleasant breeze. Y/N feels it through the fabric of her fitted black tee, but not through her dark-brown vest, only appreciative of the gun that strapped within the inside. Her boots threaten to weigh her down as she walks through the dirt trail—rimmed with mud from last night’s drizzle—trying to keep up with the boys as they walked from the hotel to the vehicle rentals service, renting a _4x4_ that Nathan insisted on getting a winch. Y/N opted for silence while the boys talked of the potential treasures that could be found in the temple ruins, unaware of the stolen glances that Sam had given her as he sat beside her in the backseat.

The temple of _Ithmia_ was their destination on the island, and Y/N nearly squealed as she saw it along the road in the far distance. Sam nearly had to catch Y/N from flying out of her seat when she spotted it, rocketing upwards and circling an arm around her waist as she lurched with the halt. The car pulled into the space farthest from the temple within the lot, providing the least manageable distance for a quick get-away as the group had witnessed multiple large _SUV’s_ took up the majority. Y/N was left indifferent as she saw them—Arthur and his men were already here.

“What the hell do we do now?” Sam inquires with a sour tone, folding his arms, “There’s gotta be at least a hundred guys scouring the temple grounds. No way we can stroll right in and search without getting noticed.”

“Yeah, this looks like a ton of trouble…” Nathan sighed, reaching into his pocket before pulling out a map.

Along the forestry that surrounded the temple, Y/N felt a tinge of disappointment as she watched armed gunmen cross over and through the ancient ruins. They were, unfortunately, everywhere and there was no cover that could be provided between the lot and the entrance—not unless they wanted to get shot, of course. However, Y/N would rather not destroy a thousand year old temple with a barrage of bullets and _RPG’s_. 

As she scanned the nearby area, Y/N had seen an old sign standing by its lonesome at the farthest end of the lot, overlooking the cliffside of the sea, surrounded by a dozen of trees. With a glance over her shoulder, seeing that her presence could go missed for a minute or so, Y/N approached the sign with a keen and curious gaze. Looking back between the endless sun-lit sea and the creaky-old post, her eyes narrowed, trying to get a better look at the words that was inscribed in an old, rusted-brown ink across the chipped wood panels. What came from her pocket next was their clue— _her pamphlet_ —finding that the words were the same, yet seemed vastly different.

_Why was it all the way out here? Why wasn’t it by the temple?_

Y/N rose a brow as she noticed the trees, where one of its fruits fell in front of her feet.

Impulsively, Y/N popped it in her mouth, crinkling her nose to the oiled and heavily-salted taste.

_It was an olive_ , Y/N finally concluded, her eyes drifting towards the trees along the sea.

_Does that mean…?_

“These cars are cold, Victor. They’ve been here since this morning.” Sam observed aloud, pressing his palm against the engine on one of the cars, “They must’ve found something.”

For a moment, bitterness and anger filled the air—but was silenced by an indifferent call.

“If they found something, don’t you think they would have left for the bank right now?” Y/N’s voice cuts through the anxious atmosphere, gaining attention from the boys who had seen her approach with her nose stuck in her pamphlet.

“Uh, Y/N, doll,” Sam tried calling out, blinking incredulously as she walked towards the temple, “What are you doing? We cannot go anywhere near that place. Arthur’s men are everywhere and I don’t know about you, but I don’t wanna get shot by stepping one foot into that temple.”

Sam had caught Y/N by the hand, switching almost immediately to clasp his palms around her fingers, pulling her still. She had finally ripped her face away from the pamphlet and pierced her gaze upon him, not of hostility or irritation, but impatience—the same as Sam’s who was expecting even a figment of an answer. Y/N folded her palm against his knuckles, as somewhat of a good-natured and affectionate gesture, before slipping away to point at the cliffside of the sea behind the invaded temple.

“We don’t have to step inside it, Sam. We have to go around it.”

Sam seemed to be reeling his mind with this new information, before Nathan cut between them with Victor.

“Hey, don’t forget about us. Care to share with the rest of the class?” Nathan teases with a hopeful and wavering grin.

Y/N gestures her hand towards the sign and the various trees aligned along the cliffside, “Guys, these are olive trees. These are like trees that Athena had made when she fought for this place against Poseidon! These guys have been looking in the wrong place—they don’t even have this clue, I’ll bet you that Arthur didn’t even read the sign.”

A beat of silence is enough for the Drake brothers and a Sullivan to process the newfound information, eyes exchanging bewildered to ecstatically excited looks before praising her with smiles and upbeat movements. They were glad to revere her not only as a celebrated historian, but as a keen observationalist, thankful that no clue would go flying over their heads—which would happen on many occasions. 

_“Atta girl!”_ Victor boasts heartily, moving over to inspect the trees while the brothers follow, “Now, which one is the real deal? Said that Athena’s _‘great spear’_ grew one olive tree when she threw it into the sea. There’s a dozen here. This might take a while.”

“Well, as long as we don’t have Arthur and his goons coming down here and start blowing up the place,” Sam earns various hums of agreement, beginning to inspect a nearby tree, “In any case, we should try to find this tree quickly.”

Y/N white-knuckles through leaping down a particularly high edge upon the cliff, coming down to inspect the rocky shoreline that crashes angrily with the rippling sea. Her hands coil tightly onto the stone ledge while she lowers herself beside another olive tree. It’s daintier than the rest with thinner leaves but its roots are thick within the dirt, Y/N nearly trips over them as she runs her hands along the trunk sides, frowning as she doesn’t feel any difference in the wood.

_What would make Athena’s olive tree stand out above the rest?_ Y/N pondered, _what is Athena’s significance?_

Y/N’s thoughts however, had abruptly came to an end as she tripped over and fell on her shoulder upon a crooked root. Surely, and unfortunately, something had torn through her skin and shirt. She bit down her tongue to prevent letting out such a loud sound that would evoke worry or give away their location, rolling on her back with a strained hiss sliding behind her teeth. Y/N glared at the root that had breached the surface of the sculpted grounds, finding that it curiously stretched longer and farther than anticipated, reaching to even the other two trees upon that ledge. 

“Long and thin,” Y/N whispered breathlessly, holding her bleeding shoulder, _“Venomous and slithering."_

“Do you think Athena’s tree will stand out above the rest? Like…a mark or something?” Nathan prompted loudly, smoothing his palms along the bark of the tree, trying to find any divots.

“Yeah, I’m sure there’s bound to be at least one defining trait!” Sam exclaims with a mischievous glint, “Find the one with a giant spear sticking out of it! Then, you’ll know that’s the right one!”

_“Oh, ha ha.”_ Nathan rolls his eyes to Sam who snorts, “Y/N? I’ve got nothing on these three. Neither Victor or Sam. How’s your search?”

Sam takes alert to the silence, his head peering from behind one of his assigned trees before looking over and seeing no sign of the girl. His brother went ahead first, more adequate to act upon his paranoia, hopping down over the ledge that she had supposedly gone down to. Victor had formed knots in that iron gullet of his, where an equal hardening of his expression took place as he followed Sam down after Nathan over the ledge. _Sam would have been the first to bolt_ , Victor thought smugly, before scolding himself.

“Y/N?” Nathan called with a controlled yet taut voice, coming down with the other two boys to find Y/N crouched in front of the farthest tree on that edge of the cliff— _bleeding_.

Sam had practically sprinted to check Y/N’s injury. He spun her around by her should with almost everything he had, his throat drying in a tight swell when he had peered at her astonished face and the intricacies of the wound. It had been poked and scraped by wooden splinters, cut thin through her skin with uneven cracks, drooling some trails of red—nothing that was lethal. To save himself from being caught needlessly worried in that seven-second span, Sam cleared his throat and shoved himself aside, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Jesus, you really had us scared there!” Sam huffed, removing his hands from her shoulders, “What happened? Why didn’t you answer?”

Y/N remained nonchalant after snapping from her stunned stupor, pointing lowly at the hole that was hidden under the tree behind her back—explaining why mounds of dirt reached her knees and why her hands were so red and dusty—though she appeared to be unbothered by the filth.

“I had my head stuck in there for a full minute, sorry about that,” Y/N got up, wiping her hands along her jeans before pointing at the sinuous roots near the boys’ feet, “I didn’t know what I was looking for at first, I didn’t have an idea of what kind of specific trait Athena would leave on these trees. But then, I saw these roots that looked like snakes. The wood patterns are old but they kind of look like scales, don’t they?”

“Athena does symbolize snakes, to some degree,” Nathan agreed before narrowing his eyes towards the hole she made, “But why go through the trouble of digging this up if you found the tree we’re looking for?”

“There’s stonework under here!” Sam announced, answering Nathan’s question who stood witness to Y/N’s confident smirk, “Looks like an underground tunnel or something, a thousand year old, dirty and intact…”

Y/N spins on her toes to the tree, happily tracing her fingers along the line of the nearest snake-like root. The boys follow the curving and slithering patten of the tree, their breaths taken by a noticeable round hole that lay imbedded in the middle of the trunk. It was the size of an _American_ quarter—where Y/N had put out her hand towards Sam with a giddy and albeit, mischievous smile. 

He blanked out, apparently, “What?”

“You and Sam made a bet on where the treasure would be found,” She drawled before pointing at Sam, “You bet that it would be in the first temple we came across. While Nathan bet that it was in the last one. But it’s _neither_. Our treasure wasn’t in any temple, so, _I win!_ Pay up.”

Although Sam’s heart thrummed, his defiance to her commands were stronger.

“You didn’t even partake in our bet!” Sam whined as his arms threw upwards furiously, only eliciting yet another wicked smile from Y/N.

“Oh, yeah. I didn’t partake in **_your_** bet. I partook in _Victor’s_ bet,” Y/N giggled as Nathan shouted a shocked _‘what the fuck’_ at the con-man who laughed heartily, giving her a high-five, “I betted on Sam’s coin that we would find the treasure elsewhere. This _is_ elsewhere. Pay up, buckaroo!”

When Y/N places the drachma in the slot, Sam doesn’t have the heart to overcome his bitterness when the hole deepens to reveal the underground staircase. Neither of the Drake brothers, in fact. They look on with stubbornly crossed arms as Victor _goddamn_ Sullivan and _Miss Swearing-Sunshine_ Y/N skip down the staircase into the unknown.

_No honor among thieves, huh?_


End file.
